


Crown for a Sovereign

by Taffia



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Alistair wasn't kidding, Amaranthine, Antiva, Awakening, Blood Magic, Denerim, F/M, Intrigue, Mystery, Solona as Orlesian Warden, and a really bad date with a demon, commedia dell'arte
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 83,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taffia/pseuds/Taffia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What? Lead? Alistair? No, no, no. No leading. Bad things happen when he leads: Crows become Wardens, Orlesians come to Ferelden, and a king is lost without his armor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crime and Punishment

Cyrano waited patiently for the verdict.

He had been standing in the middle of the Landsmeet Chamber of the palace in Denerim for the better part of two hours. First, he had to wait for the banns to speak with the new king about whatever it was they felt his ears should hear (if Cyrano heard one more mention of "darkspawn", he'd spare the king the difficulty and just execute himself there on the spot). After that, he had to stand in front of the throne, his hands bound in iron chains and his feet sinking into the plush blue carpet. Around him, banns lined the balconies jutting out into the room, closing him in. And all the king did, his youthful brow furrowed in thought, was read the parchment handed to him by Cyrano's guard.

King Alastair rested his chin on his right hand, index finger pressed against his cheek bone. His curled fingers covered his lips entirely, so Cyrano felt himself at a bit of a loss for completely being able to read his expression. Was it vexation? Confusion? From what he knew of this new King of Ferelden it was that the boy had precious little experience. Thus, it was the figure at his right shoulder that consequently drew the majority of Cyrano's attention.

She was a pretty little redhead, short as all elves were. Her flaming hair was pulled back in a bun with two small wisps falling alongside her brilliantly green eyes. Cyrano felt her slender frame would be better suited in a flowing gown of Orlesian silks (perhaps lilac with a fine gold trim to bring out those intense eyes all the more). But, instead, she wore the somber uniform of the Grey Warden-Commander, the flat azure field flushing out what remained of her pale skin tone and the white griffon blazon doing little to improve matters. She stood close to the king, closer than any of his other advisors. It made Cyrano wonder if any of the rumors were true.

It was whispered even so far as Cyrano's native Antiva that King Alastair had refused to marry his brother's widow, Anora, who was a strong ruler in her own right. Instead, Anora was imprisoned until the banns could figure out the best way to deal with her, and the Warden-Commander never left the king's side. Cyrano would think her to be Alistair's bodyguard. Who better than the woman who slew a demon-tainted dragon and lived to tell of it? The rumors took it further. The two were lovers, they said, and that the human king would likely break with tradition and not only marry an _elf_ but the elf that happened to lead the Grey Wardens of Ferelden.

He had heard the murmurings of the banns as he was held off to the side before his hearing. Grey Wardens rarely lived long, and with the darkspawn still threatening the countryside despite the Archdemon's death, the people had little expectation of the Warden-Commander living long enough to give the king an heir. And if she did, what of the taint? Grey Wardens all had a little of that poisonous taint in them, which allowed them to be better suited to fight the darkspawn…but to pass that on to a child? It was a topic hushed quickly in mixed company. Some complained further that the Warden-Commander, though charismatic and capable, was far from being of noble birth. Being an elf made her descended from slaves. To put another commoner on the throne as Queen Consort was going to try the patience of every noble. Especially those with marriageable daughters.

"This is all very odd," the king finally spoke, not moving his hands but lifting his hazel eyes to take in Cyrano. Those eyes of his were an odd color, hazel being the best way to describe them. But there was a brightness to the color—part glowing golden brown and part amber-green—that the prisoner could tell was not entirely human. Did the taint do that to a person? "Do you know why you're here?" he king continued.

"I imagine it's because I was caught," Cyrano replied honestly. "My boots betrayed me. That rotten meat smell…I keep forgetting how much your mabari love it."

That really had pretty much been the way of it. Cyrano remembered sneaking into the supposedly abandoned warehouse that the smugglers were using for their slave trade. He was silent as a shadow thanks to years of intensive training under the Crows, and the metal of his blades never caught a single glint of light no matter what angle it came from. There had been a mabari hound sleeping not too far away from the door, and it didn't even twitch as he approached. However, even in the throes of its dream of lamb bones (or possibly because of it), the animal's keen nose picked up the telltale scent of Antivan leather. It sniffed. It woke. It barked quite happily and began leaping around Cyrano as if he had a huge sack of mabari crunch biscuits.

There had been other dogs in the building, apparently, and there came a chorus of barking from upstairs. This was followed by the thunder of booted feet and several smugglers came tumbling down the rickety wooden steps one after the other. Fighting them off was not the difficulty. Getting out of the building with his armor not chewed to pieces had become the new goal, and that was how the bann's men found him, running through the streets of Denerim with a pack of mabari hot on his heels…the cliché more apt than he was willing to accept.

"The jailer's report says there is evidence of you being a hired assassin and operating on a contract here in Denerim, calling for your execution. However…you were arrested executing a _second_ contract that required you to rescue children from an underground slave market?" The perplexed king shot a look to his Warden-Commander as if asking for guidance. She must have understood the glance better than Cyrano for she then looked to him directly.

"Two contracts," her firm voice intoned, "one for the Crows—which doesn't surprise me—and another for a separate organization." The king handed her the parchment for her to better get the details even though she had read over his shoulder. "The Grey Wolves. I have never heard of such an organization."

"Nor I," Alistair put in, finally uncovering his face. Cyrano had to admit that he was quite handsome with his smooth, angular jaw and closely trimmed mopping of dark blond hair. He also appeared to be older than the prisoner first expected. "Though, that is unimportant compared to the apparent…conflicting morality of the situation. One of these actions is an executable offence. The other is a charitable action to be commended. Drawing from my own experience, I refuse to send you to the block without hearing the details from you."

There was a low rumble throughout the vaulted room, the banns talking amongst themselves of their opinions of Cyrano, the situation, and even the king.

"It's really quite simple, sire," Cyrano began, flicking his head to get an annoying lock of black hair away from his face. "I switched sides, but didn't want it to immediately look like I was switching sides. The Crows are…not at all forgiving to those that abandon them. So, I came under the pretense of intending to assassinate Bann Athelstan because he knew too much about a Crow operation here on your soil. Simultaneously, I had the contract for the bann's plan to rid himself of the Crow problem, which is where the Grey Wolf contract comes into play. Thus, if you want to learn the inner workings of that second bit, I suggest questioning Bann Athelstan. As for my part in it, I was instructed to rescue children and kill their slavers. That is all."

The king sat back to ponder over that information while the Warden-Commander stepped forward, descending the steps to actually stand before the human prisoner. She was shorter than Cyrano by a full head, but that didn't make her look any less imposing. He barely managed to stop himself from flinching away from her.

"Give me the name of your contact in the Wolves." There was something in her tone, something subtle and compelling. Even without flowery verbosity used in most rhetoric, he felt himself wanting to answer her completely and honestly without any regard for the potential consequences. He managed, barely, to stop himself.

_She's very well trained_ , he thought to himself. _I'm sure the Crows are dying to acquire someone with her level of skill—if for nothing else than to get one of their own within bowshot of this new king._

"I am sorry, madam, but my contact is also the leader of the Wolves. It is yet a small organization. However, I was told there is one person I can trust to divulge any information to. I was promised that they would be a guaranteed ally in these lands so foreign to me."

"Then give me their name." The Warden-Commander shrugged as if the issue were some casual thing.

He leaned forward just enough to lower his voice for her ears only, conscious that his guard might try to stop him. "I was given a name…Kallian Tabris. I was told the bann could lead me to her if anything went wrong."

The woman laughed, a low chuckle that was barely audible but shook her leather-armored shoulders. It progressed, quickly turning into a full laugh that echoed through the hall. All murmuring stopped. The king looked thoroughly confused as Cyrano was certain he did, himself.

"Your contact was as good as his word," the Warden-Commander replied, "if a bit roundabout, as it was Bann Athelstan that had you arrested." She turned and ascended the steps back to the king's side, Cyrano left to gape in her wake. She whispered something to King Alistair, and he nodded.

"Take him to the holding cells." The king motioned to the guard. "The Warden-Commander will further question the prisoner there."

Cyrano continued to stare at the king and his favorite advisor as he was led off to a door in the northern wall of the chamber, just off the royal dais. He saw the king nod to someone beyond him. Quickly shifting his attention, Cyrano caught an armored man shallowly nodding in return. This same man stopped the guard just outside the door.

"Back to your post, soldier. I'll deal with this from here." The man's voice was gruff and stern, his hand quickly clamped around Cyrano's upper arm. His grip was as equally stern, and Cyrano winced with pain. His former guard saluted and marched off down the corridor.

"I'm Ser Ratham," the man said to Cyrano as he led him off in the opposite direction of where Cyrano was fairly certain the dungeon was. He knew because he'd only recently come from there. He didn't mind not being taken back to the cold dampness of his cell, but he rather worried that he was in for a worse fate. "The king's instructions were a ruse to confound any Crows who might have been present in the audience chamber."

"Certainly, the king himself did not tell you this. Only the Warden-Commander—"

"Sorry to leave you so out of the loop, rogue, but they both knew long before you were even brought to trial. Bann Athelstan sent a missive ahead of you."

Cyrano sighed perhaps a little too dramatically. "Played by a mark. I hate it when that happens."

His new cell was the Warden-Commander's study. Ser Ratham stood inside the door to keep an eye on him, but Cyrano was otherwise left on his own…still chained, but not everything could be ideal. Of course, he didn't have the intention of trying to escape or any such nonsense, but having the heavy manacles off would be much appreciated. And tea. Tea would be nice.

Ratham was not one for conversation in much the same way a Qunari warrior was.

"Do you expect that it will take the Warden-Commander long to join us?"

"That depends."

"Do you think she honestly understands that I was working for the bann? That she's not going to creep in through the window and stab me in the back?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe what? The understanding bit or the stabbing bit?"

"Both."

"You really don't care to talk to me, do you?"

"No."

Having no luck with conversation, Cyrano turned to the multitude of bookshelves. From the looks of things, the Warden-Commander was a very cultured woman, which was especially surprising given that she was an elf and probably had been lucky to even know how to read. She had everything from histories to magical treatises, secrets of the dwarves to documented Dalish poetry. Cyrano longed to browse through one of those elven collections, the bard in him desiring to learn the secret, beautiful songs that told of gods older than the Maker. With his hands tied, all he could do was stare at the leather-bound spines.

This was how the Warden-Commander found him, gazing longingly at her collection of tomes, his hands half-poised in the air as he constantly forgot about the manacles until they clanked and jingled and rust powder got in his nose. He sneezed.

"Maker's blessings," the Warden-Commander reflexively replied.

Cyrano looked up, startled. Ser Ratham was gone and the red-haired woman stood just inside a closed door. He hadn't even noticed. This woman was good. Too good. In any other situation, he'd most certainly be dead. And wouldn't that be embarrassing. One of the most highly prized assassins in all of Antiva gutted while drooling over books. Shameful.

"Please, take a seat." She nodded to a high backed wooden chair near her desk while she took a seat behind the massive piece of furniture. It clearly had not been made for her. Perhaps it was a relic of a previous regime, the Orlesians most likely. It was too ornate for standard Fereldan tastes, and he doubted quite heavily that a woman like the Warden-Commander would willingly go out of her way to acquire such a gaudy thing. The top of the desk was covered in books and papers, a few vials of sinister-looking potions, and a bright silver bell that seemed to glow with a soft blue light. Curious, valuable, and conveniently out of his reach.

Cyrano obediently sat and folded his hands in his lap. There was little else he could do with them.

"I apologize for the ruse," the woman went on, her voice lilting and friendly. "The Crows and I don't get along, so I wanted to make sure nothing happened to you once I heard from Bann Athelstan."

"It's no trouble, ser, I promise you."

"Call me Kallian, please. Now…your leader's name. I promise that it's just you and me."

"No holes in the walls? No spells that let mages listen in?" His gaze shifted warily from corner to corner.

"Definitely not. I know all the tricks. I especially know how to not let them be used against me."

Cyrano smiled, crinkling his deep brown eyes. "I thought as much. I noticed, in the Landsmeet Chamber, that you have a…a particular gift in speaking. It's not so much what you say as how you say it. An elf in these lands is not trained in oratory so it must have been some other way. There are limited options in the slums of an Alienage."

Kallian nodded. "And what else have you noticed?"

"That you could have snuck up on me, slit my throat, and from a lady like you, I would have enjoyed every moment of it."

The woman laughed again, as brightly as she had earlier when he'd told her her own name. "Antivans. You're all the same, aren't you? Sly flirts with shocking rates of success?"

"Shocking only in the sense that we frequently get turned down, most often by Fereldan women."

Kallian continued to smile. "Your leader's name."

"To you, it's Zevran. To anyone else, it's Shadowfang."

The Warden-Commander's expression automatically melted into one of perplexity. She blinked quietly for a moment as she processed that. When she spoke again, it wasn't to him necessarily. It sounded more like she was thinking out loud.

"I never should have taken him to see the Dalish. Now, he probably thinks he's a werewolf."

"I'm sorry?" Cyrano raised an eyebrow at her.

"Nothing, just…Zevran…he's a dear friend. Probably knocked out too many times with a club in a dark alley, but a dear friend, nonetheless."

"Good to know. When he said I could seek you out, I wasn't so sure about it. The Crows have had several contracts out on you for months. What's the point in trying to find an ally in the most wanted mark if it's only going to get you killed?"

Kallian simply sat there for a moment, clearly pondering something over that may or may not have had anything to do with what Cyrano had just said. Zevran, perhaps? He hoped she wasn't throwing him further by claiming the elf a close friend. Zevran didn't seem the sort to allow himself to be too close to anyone even if it was a fellow elf who also happened to be the Grey Warden that so famously (amongst thieves) spared his life. For one rogue to implicitly trust another was almost a contradiction in terms.

Speaking of such, why was he, Cyrano Rideri, so trusting of this woman? It was a simple answer not requiring much thought. His life rather depended on it at the moment, and he was nothing if not a fond lover of self-preservation.

The Warden-Commander wove her fingers together in front of her face, turning her focus from somewhere ambiguously middle distance directly to Cyrano's face, meeting and holding his gaze. He noticed that each hand had a ring on it. On her right hand was a ring of silver metal veined with something a deep red. On her left was a simple golden ring etched with surprisingly intricate designs. He'd seen such things before on other elves…usually married ones…usually ones married to other _elves_. He'd need to remember to ask her about it later when his personal freedoms weren't still in the balance. Shackled hands. They were a dead giveaway that she didn't trust him yet.

"If Zevran sent you to aid the bann," she finally said, "it should follow that I help you finish the job. Athelstan's missive said the Crows found out about your turncoat tactics before you actually managed to track down the ones in charge of this end of the operation."

Cyrano felt himself pale a bit. Hearing her state that was probably more embarrassing than being "arrested" in the first place.

"No, ser—Kallian. No, I didn't find them. We Wolves are too few, yet, to have a proper information network."

Kallian nodded. "I've learned in my dealings with them that the Crows usually have their fingers in far more than is good for them. Several of the nobles have been known to use their services…even far up the chain of command." She scowled, looking off to the side again and back into the middle distance. Cyrano had to bestill the urge to turn and see exactly what it was she stared at for concentration. "There is probably no way to actually ever get rid of them, but I want it widely known that they are not welcome, particularly within the city limits. Alistair is in too precarious a position right now, especially since the darkspawn did not immediately retreat back to their holes in the Deep Roads."

Her eyes shot back to lock with Cyrano's again. "You have one week to prove your worth to me. If we can keep the Crows thinking you're arrested and probably executed, all the better for you. We have enough information on your contract to finish it, and I'll inform Zevran, myself, when it's handled. As for your task, you owe us a bit of a favor."

Cyrano balked but found that he couldn't deny her words. She and the king—and Bann Athelstan—did just save his life. That was a huge debt to repay. Possibly too huge. However, Zevran was evidently living proof that the Warden-Commander was as good as her word.

"What…do you wish of me?" he asked hesitantly, not totally certain he wanted to know the answer.

Kallian didn't respond. Instead, she reached for a small silver hammer sitting on her desk and tapped it against the bell. There was a high, clear tone that hung in the air for several seconds. Cyrano had never before heard its like and felt a strange pang of longing almost as if he were remembering a pleasant dream. Not long after the beautiful sound faded away, the door to the study opened and soft footsteps approached. He turned around in his seat to have a look.

A young woman had entered, black hair pulled back from her face and secured into a long tail that hung down her back. She was dressed in the deep rose and crimson robes of a mage, and her waist was cinched with a belt displaying the heavy bronze seal of the Chantry. And what a waist it was! Cyrano was immediately reminded of the slim stem of a glass of fine Orlesian wine, a stem he could delicately twirl between his fingers. As with the glass, the woman's waist accentuated the shapeliness of her hips which matched the broadness of her shoulders. A perfect hourglass…and the face that went with it. _Oh, Maker_ , Cyrano was beside himself with admiration. She had large, vibrant grey eyes, a small, straight nose, and a full mouth the color of a budding rose. Her cheeks maintained a faint, natural blush, and her heart-shaped face was lightly tattooed with a design that he couldn't immediately place but probably said something about where she was from or what magic she was expert in. Flowing lines and symmetrical patterns erupted across her smooth forehead and her cheekbones and chin held miniature variants of the same, contouring her face perfectly.

_Such poetry I could compose for one such as this_ , Cyrano thought to himself…so intensely that it was an extreme effort not to say it aloud.

"You summoned me, Commander?"

And her voice! Cyrano found himself suddenly reeling when he heard the cultured Orlesian accent. Stories immediately began to take form in his head, stories that would long to be told as soon as they progressed further than the premise of a lovely Orlesian maiden being held captive by a jealous high dragon of ill manners.

"Solona, this is Cyrano," Kallian stated, her attention focused on the mage. All the better. Cyrano could feel himself beginning to sweat. "He owes the kingdom a boon and claims to work for a friend of mine. He has the sponsorship of Bann Athelstan, so I am willing to accept this claim until I learn otherwise." She glanced at Cyrano just long enough to give him a stern look then turned back to Solona. "I'm giving him time to prove his worth, especially if we now must keep him safe from the Crows long enough for them to consider him dead. To begin, if you wouldn't mind, kindly take him with you when you run your errands in the Alienage."

"Even to see Shianni?"

"Especially to see Shianni."

Cyrano was beside himself. From the sounds of things, he was being given over to this Orlesian beauty for the remainder of the day, which was plenty of time to begin learning about this glorious new muse. He could no longer contain his quickly-building excitement.

"Commander, you honor me!" he exclaimed, falling from the chair to his knees before the desk. He pressed his forehead to the floor than straightened. "I will gladly submit myself to this young lady's every mercy!"

A sudden jolt shot through his manacles. He yelped in pain as his body reflexively jerked and fell to the floor. Try as he might, he couldn't stop the twitching that lasted for several agonizing moments. He did manage to have enough focus to look up at the young mage, the floor giving him a more clear perspective than being twisted awkwardly in his chair. She was still exceedingly lovely, even with—or especially because of—the wicked smirk that curled her lips.

"My every mercy?" Solona maintained her smirk as she looked to the Warden-Commander. "This I can accept. I should like to be off immediately, but might I request that my…charge…first be bathed and redressed? He smells like rotten meat and wet dog."

Kallian nodded and came around the desk to help Cyrano to his feet. He was most grateful but found difficulty in actually saying so. The electricity from the manacles still seemed to be playing havoc with his system. That he wasn't drooling was a blessing that would probably see him at the Chantry later that he might give thanks…possibly in the form of a donation that he'd have to lift from somewhere else.

"My father made a room for him in the east wing. Ser Ratham is set to guard it." Solona nodded and headed for the door, Kallian followed to ensure that Cyrano made his way out without collapsing. She also took the opportunity to whisper in his ear.

"If you even so much as think of doing anything to hurt Shianni, understand that I would give my life to protect her. However, I make no guarantee that I would do anything at all…to keep her from hurting you." With that, she released him to his own two feet, the cold flagstone of the hallway, and Solona's quickly retreating form. Watching her walk away as quite the pleasant experience, and he only thought to try to catch up to her after she rounded a corner and left his line of sight.

"Yes, Commander," he stated with a quick bow to Kallian before dashing off. "Naturally, I shall give Shianni my every respect." And so he ran, ran like the mabari were after him, ran like the darkspawn vermin would eat him alive, ran like a beguiling witch had just stolen his very soul and only in her presence did he have a hope of getting it back.


	2. A Warden and Her Wiles

The palace was not so much a maze as he would have otherwise expected. Cyrano had little trouble following in the wake of Solona's brisk steps down corridors and up stairways, and he managed to maintain his sense of direction. The windows helped. Glass panes lined the walls where they could, letting in an abundance of sunlight. Anyone who spent a fair amount of time outdoors could tell the time and direction from that alone.

Where there were no windows, Cyrano relied on memorizing lefts and rights in accordance with the square grid pattern that the castle followed. His only issue was the lack of identifiable landmarks. Fereldans were not ones for excessive finery or useless décor. Statues were few and were mostly of the prophetess, Andraste. Sometimes, she'd actually be poised in a different position…maybe with a shield…perhaps, if she was feeling daring, she'd be wielding a sword. But it was always Andraste. If there were paintings, they were all in the same style. Either that or the Fereldans had such a brief history in this particular palace that they merely duplicated any and all portraiture of important arls, banns, and the occasional monarch. Cyrano did notice several portraits of the late King Maric, possibly as many as there were statues of Andraste. He could have at least been half as exciting as the prophetess and tried wearing a different suit of armor now and again.

Eventually, the pair came to a large wooden door reinforced with black iron. Ser Ratham stood out front and saluted Solona respectfully as she passed him to push the door open. Cyrano followed her inside. The room was spacious with a high ceiling. Tapestries in muted colors lined the walls, and sunlight poured through tall windows that faced out over the stable yard. A large bed of mahogany wood dominated one end of the room while high-backed chairs flanked a large fireplace on the other. An open doorway near the bed led off into a separate chamber where Cyrano could hear the sound of water being pumped into a large tub.

"Get yourself cleaned up and then meet me in the entrance hall," Solona said. "We will not have much time to make our rounds of the Alienage before sundown."

"But what is it that we'll be doing?" Cyrano asked curiously, noting for the first time in several minutes that he was _still_ in manacles.

"I will brief you once you're clean and freshly dressed." The mage turned and made her way to the door.

"My lady," Cyrano called after her, even chasing her for a few steps. "My lady, please. You can't possibly expect me to bathe and dress while still in chains." He held up his wrists in emphasis.

The expression on her face was one of pure annoyance as if she, herself, had totally forgotten the full state of affairs regarding her charge. She sighed brusquely and turned back to the door.

"Ser Ratham will have to sort that out," she said as she left. "No one saw fit to give me the key."

Cyrano stared at the door after Solona closed it behind her, a scowl marring his features. A rose wreathed in brambles that one was. With a sigh of his own, he turned in the direction of the sound of water. He had no intention of bothering to deal with Ser Ratham again, especially if he was only going to be as helpful as he was the last time. That was to say: not at all. He paused near the open doorway and looked down at the chains that bound him, taking a closer look at the latching mechanism than he had bothered to when they were first put on him. The locks looked simple enough to pick, but the manacles were designed such that he, himself, had no hopes of getting free on his own. His wrists just didn't bend that way. He still required aid. Blast it.

The sound of water stopped, and a figure came to stand before him on the other side of the threshold. It was an older elven woman in a simple brown and white dress. She was much cleaner than Cyrano ever recalled seeing elven servants, and her dress even seemed to be made of good fabric rather than throw-away sackcloth. Her wrinkled face was clean and smiling, and her silver hair was pulled back to keep it out of the way.

"You must be the Commander's guest," she said brightly, ushering him into the washroom and over toward a massive stone bathtub filled with water. There was a furnace-like contraption over by the water pump that glowed with fiery embers.

"It's hot, I promise you," the woman said when Cyrano gave the water a quizzical expression. "We just need to get those chains off you, then." From her pocket she pulled what looked like a massive set of keys but were, in fact—

"Lockpicks?" The rogue could hardly believe his eyes. "The king lets you wander the palace with lockpicks? Does he even know you're here? Does the Warden-Commander?" Cyrano pulled his manacled hands away from the woman's reaching fingers. "I tell you, madam, I have only partway managed to secure my freedoms, and I will not be held responsible should one of the servants—"

"The law granting elves full citizenship hasn't passed the Bannorn, yet," the woman replied simply, snatching Cyrano's manacled wrists out of the air a lot faster than he expected her to be able to. In moments, the shackles clanked to the floor. "Until that time comes, only the head servant has anything resembling real keys. My name is Ellia. There are clean clothes for you in that armoire just there." She pointed to a large wooden cupboard against the far wall. "There should be something there that fits. We scrounged up what we could. Soap is by the tub, and the fresh towels are there." She nodded to a stack of folded linens that looked as soft as goose down. "I've been assigned to wait on you while you're here, so if you need anything just pull the cord by the bed. I'll hear the bell from the servants' quarters. Otherwise, Ser Ratham is just outside."

"I'd rather not deal with him," Cyrano replied honestly. "He's a poor hand at conversation and his glare makes me nervous."

Ellia laughed, a dry laugh that still felt warm. "Ratham isn't much for talking, no, but he does his duty. If he can't do something for you, he'll find someone who can."

"And watch me like a hawk while he's at it."

"Well, yes…I'd hope that he would. After all, you are an assassin of the Antivan Crows."

"Trained as one…sometimes I behave like one…" Cyrano shrugged. "Oft times these days, I find that death is highly overrated. I excel at killing others simply to not be killed off, myself. Otherwise, I've been known to make music while entire cities burn."

Ellia blinked at him, not entirely sure what the rogue was getting at.

"It's an expression," he clarified. "Refers to the Tevinter Imperium…something about Archon Vespasian." He looked back to the lightly steaming water of the bathtub. "But you will need to excuse me, madam. I am to meet a most lovely young maiden in the entry hall once I am clean, and it is very likely that she already considers me late."

The elf bobbed a quick curtsy and left the room

The bath turned out to be much needed for far more than general cleanliness. The heat melted the taut muscles in Cyrano's neck and back, letting him relax for the first time since he'd taken the conflicting contracts. The soap smelled lightly of mountain laurel and mint. He could appreciate that. The last thing he wanted was to go around smelling like a woman. Once he was clean, he toweled off and rummaged through the armoire. The clothing inside was a mix of different sizes, but he found a tunic and trousers that fit with no issue. They were in bland colors, and the vest he managed to also find did little to help things. Looking down at himself, he was quite certain that if he got into a fight and was knocked unconscious—or worse—and thrown into a hedge, no one would know he was there. Why couldn't there have been some Orlesian fashions lying about? Or had the Fereldans gone backward after expelling the Empire? Conversely, if he needed to look completely unremarkable or stay out of sight in a darkened alleyway, this was exactly the way to do it.

Perhaps he could live with it after all.

Once he felt he was ready, Cyrano ran his fingers through his damp hair to straighten it up a bit then stepped from his chamber and into the hallway. A large hand encased in steel and chain mail landed on his chest with almost enough force to knock him backward. Instead, he coughed and blinked and looked up to see who the hand belonged to. Naturally, it was the ever-watchful Ser Ratham.

"I'm to escort you to the entrance hall," he said, his words as terse as ever.

"Fantastic," Cyrano replied lightly. "If we keep this up, we'll be brothers by the end of the week."

Ser Ratham's brow furrowed slightly more than it already was, but he said nothing in return. Instead, he pointed down the corridor to where Cyrano remembered there being a stairway to the first level. He began walking, having no intention to truly infuriate his very own personal guard. That would have been a horrible idea, anyway. He was fairly certain that he was more agile than Ser Ratham by leaps and bounds, but the older soldier had the benefit of actually having a weapon (being a fearsomely sharp longsword of white steel) and a massive shield that had its own share of sharp edges and points quite appropriate enough to inflict damage. Cyrano had his bare hands and a few buttons and lacked the urge to even try to escape. Last he checked, he was still alive. He owed that to the Warden-Commander, the king, and even this soldier of painfully few words. Abandoning their protection meant certain death at the hands of angry Crows.

The entry hall was a large vaulted room with a stone floor and carpet almost identical to the Landsmeet Chamber itself. It had a closer, warmer feeling, however, with the overall space significantly smaller, the ceiling lower, and a distinct lack of snooty nobles with nothing better to do. Granted, there were a few nobles milling about, but they had a distinct lack of interest in him, especially now that he looked like any other Fereldan save with darker hair and more dusky skin.

Solona stood near the main entry doors to the palace. A young noblewoman with blonde hair was cheerily speaking with her about something that Cyrano yearned to know of. Whatever it was, it was making the mage smile in such a pleasant way he was almost able to totally forget that she hadn't been anything but brusque and rude with him. He still wished to encapsulate her particular beauty in some poem or ode or epic, but he knew quite well that he couldn't create something equally lovely when his muse exhibited no soul. He was intent to find that soul.

Unless of course, the woman was a complete harpy secretly possessed by a demon.

 _Probably a demon of desire or pride_ , he thought. _She certainly exhibits those properties with vigorous abandon. Wait…that could be it! The loveliest of maidens corrupted by the touch of a demon, cursed forever and only…and only…Andraste's frilly knickers! What could possibly break the curse that isn't woefully overdone?_

The mage's smile immediately faded the moment she saw Cyrano and Ser Ratham approach.

"You're late," she stated flatly, the cheery blonde woman immediately scurrying away as if she were afraid of becoming collateral damage.

_I knew it._

"Apologies, Solona, but you were the one that insisted I clean and find a change of clothes. Such things do take time."

Solona dismissed Ser Ratham with a surprisingly polite bow that he returned, and the soldier marched off to resume his post.

"Some clarification before I take you anywhere." The mage's tone was firm and businesslike. "You will address me as My Lady or Ser. You will speak only when spoken to and stand unless otherwise asked to be seated. When you do speak, you will keep it short and to the point. And if you have the audacity to even try to touch me, I will melt what little bit of brain you have with chain lightning. Am I clear?"

Cyrano took a deep and measured breath. He was already beginning to amend his story idea from earlier. It would not be a fair maiden trapped by a high dragon of ill manners. The fair maiden would, in truth, _be_ the high dragon of ill manners, and it would be the knight come to rescue her that would actually need the saving. It was such a tragic way to end a promising tale of romance and high fantasy…but there it was. No one ever said that life was fair.

He'd be damned if he let her get away with such behavior, though.

"Now, I don't feel—"

Blue veins of light and power crackled along Solona's hand as she clenched the iron shaft of her mage's staff.

"—that your request is any way inappropriate." Damn his will to live! "We should be off immediately, my lady. I would not want to inconvenience you further."

"Your every breath is an inconvenience," she muttered as she turned toward the door. The guard there opened it and bowed as she passed. When Cyrano walked by, he could have sworn he caught a look of sympathy on the armored man's face. In that moment, he began to feel that suffering the revenge of the Crows he betrayed would have been so much the sweeter.

~~~o~~~o~~~o~~~

The elven alienage wasn't quite what he'd expected it to be. The alienages he knew were filthy, run-down citadels of rotten wood and muddy streets. The alienage in Denerim had a feel of newness to it, a particular cleanliness that Cyrano was immediately both confused and impressed by. The houses were constructed of sturdy wood planks or fresh wattle-and-daub held up by rugged stone. The elves walking about seemed significantly more carefree than he had ever encountered before, and even humans could be seen about working just as hard at new construction projects as the race that normally served _them_. Could this be what Ellia had begun to mention? Was a law for elven equality really being proposed to the Bannorn with a hope of success? If this were so, Ferelden would prove him wrong by being less backward than he'd initially thought.

A square opened before them, full of milling elves and playing children. The atmosphere was a light one, lacking the traditional somber melancholy, and the giant tree at the center of everything provided a sense of tranquility. Even with Solona's smothering presence, Cyrano felt that he could truly breathe here.

Solona headed for a building shaded by the tree's far-reaching branches and knocked on the door. Not even a minute passed before the wooden door was opened and an elven woman's smiling face peered out at them. She had a pleasant appearance with golden eyes and rosy cheeks. Her hair was the same fiery red as the Warden-Commander, and he wondered if they were in any way related.

"Warden Solona!" the elf exclaimed happily, flinging the door open wide and bursting forth, tackling the mage in a huge hug. Cyrano was beside himself in shock. Firstly, the elf wasn't spontaneously electrocuted. Secondly…Solona was a _Grey_ _Warden_? "I'm so glad Kallian sent you. You won't believe what we've found!"

Solona extricated herself just enough to respond, a smile like the one she had in the entry hall blazoned across her face.

"Shianni, I swear, if you found another hidden stash of blood lotus, you'll put the merchants from Amaranthine out of business."

"Better! Come inside." The smaller woman dragged the mage into the house by the cuff of her sleeve, and Cyrano was left to wander in behind. The house was a cozy one if a little sparse. It was an open space dominated mostly by a large table covered in pots and dishes and foodstuffs as if Shianni had been in the middle of preparing a meal when they knocked. A far corner held a small bookshelf and a set of bunk beds, a male elf with dark red hair sitting on a low stool poring over a ragged tome. Was he reading or just looking at the pictures? Cyrano's general understanding of city elf culture was destined to be shattered by the end of the day if this kept up.

Shianni let go of Solona's sleeve when they reached the table, but the elf kept walking over to the wall next to the fireplace. A low shelf hung there laden with random items that looked like a collection similar to what a common pickpocket would accumulate over the course of several successful marks. She picked up something small that glinted in the firelight and brought it over.

"Take a look at this," she said brightly, her face positively beaming. "You know how Kallian's been having us sort through all the personal effects of the darkspawn? We found that yesterday. Soren's been trying to look up anything he can on the symbols carved in it. He says it looks like it comes from ancient Tevinter, but we can't be sure. Neither of us wanted to try it on without knowing what it was."

Shianni handed the ring to Solona, and the moment the silver metal touched her skin it sparked with electric energy. Cyrano took a cautious step back, especially when he noticed the wicked grin crawl across the mage's lips.

"I could call thunder down from the heavens with this," she said with a particular inflection that twisted the Antivan's stomach. _Pride demon…definitely possessed by a pride demon. I wonder if that Templar we passed getting here will still be at his post…?_

"Ah! Good, I'm glad you can use it!" Shianni's expression quickly changed to one of a more serious nature. "And you'll probably get to use it sooner than you thought you would. I figured that starting off with good news would probably be the best option…don't think I didn't notice the glower when I opened the door."

"I wasn't glowering."

"Oh, yes, you were. You had the exact same expression on your face as you did when Geoff—"

"Please, Shianni…not in mixed company."

Solona jerked her thumb in Cyrano's direction, and the Antivan could swear that the elf had genuinely not noticed him until that moment. Her golden eyes became quizzical, and she crossed her arms over her chest.

"And who are you?"

"He happens to be—"

"Solona, I asked _him_." Shianni gave the mage a pointed look, and Cyrano couldn't help but smirk when Solona truly did bite her lip and at least give the impression that she knew she was out of line.

He cleared his throat and gave a gallant, swooping bow, something that he had learned at the Orlesian court and was immensely fond of. "I," he said with a hint of courtly grandeur, "am Cyrano Rideri of Antiva, a guest of the noble Warden-Commander whom insisted that I meet you." He held out his hand for hers, but the gesture seemed to be lost on her. She continued to keep her arms crossed as she took him in from top to toe.

"Antivan…so, let me guess. You're an assassin of some sort, probably sent to kill my cousin at which you failed, and she decided to spare your life because she thinks you might be useful."

Cyrano straightened and felt some of the color drain from his face.

"You're partly right, my lady. But it was not your cousin that I was sent to kill. I was sent after one of the banns but got caught up in a distinct conflict of interests."

Shianni shook her head, looking obviously amused. "Say what you want. Kallian still stepped in to save you. That's just what she does." She turned back to Solona. "But why are you holding his leash?"

The mage shrugged, her face marred with yet another glower. "The Commander explicitly told me to bring him along, especially when it came to visiting you."

"I see," Shianni nodded, her expression looking particularly grim. She glanced back over to Cyrano. "Congratulations, rogue. Looks like I have bad news for you, too."

~~~o~~~o~~~o~~~

Cyrano cursed as he heard another chittering hiss. Would they _never_ stop coming? With a shout, he quickly spun just in time to thrust a dagger into the thorax of a giant blighted spider, the green blood spurting from around the blade. He was in a convenient position behind it and took the opportunity to stab his second dagger—the matching pair a gift from Shianni—through the tough chitin. It bought Solona enough time to cast a lightning bolt into the foul creature's face, blinding it permanently if not doing worse damage. She followed that up with a quick burst from her staff. When the spider still didn't fall, Cyrano pulled his blades free and slashed them both inward with a great scissoring motion. The hulking body fell limply to the floor.

The rogue wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve. It was unbelievable. Shianni's bad news had been to tell them that an old apartment complex was infested with "vermin". The building had been derelict since even before the darkspawn attacked Denerim six months before, and the elves were hoping to rebuild. She could have at least told them they'd be dealing with spiders. Tainted spiders. Spiders that could spread the taint to others, and, unlike Solona, Cyrano didn't have the benefit of being effectively immune.

"Behind you!"

Cyrano spun just in time to see another spider come creeping over a pile of abandoned crates. He slashed and jabbed at the creature with his daggers, but it's front legs and mandibles prevented him from getting in close enough. At this moment, he would have given just about anything to have his twin longswords returned to him.

He heard a sizzling behind him. Then there was the slight smell of ozone. Suddenly, the air around him was completely electrified, his hair feeling like it was standing on end, and he even felt the shock of it go through his limbs. All around him, lightning crackled, and the spider was caught in the center of the storm, jerking and smoking as its life was burned away. Cyrano was fairly certain he might join it as the power seemed to surge directly through him, but the sensation soon stopped. The spider was dead. He was alive. Somehow...though, he noticed he was having distinct difficulty relaxing his fingers or unclenching his jaw. Completely dazed, he fell to the floor.

Solona was immediately kneeling over him, a concerned look on her face. Cyrano almost let himself believe that she genuinely cared about his well being. He knew better. She just didn't want the buffer between her and the freakish arachnids to perish and leave her on her own. She shook his shoulder a bit then lightly slapped him in the face.

"Can you hear me? By the Maker, why did you have to be in the way?"

Cyrano blinked. He was trying to focus and get the sparks of light out of his vision.

"In the way?" he exclaimed, even though his voice was little more than a croaking noise. "Is summoning lightning all you can do?"

"No," Solona replied stubbornly. "I healed that gash on your arm, remember?"

The Antivan reached up and rubbed at his face, partially to make him more alert but mostly to conceal his infuriated expression.

"You can shoot lightning...and heal scrapes and bruises...and nothing more." He shoved himself into a sitting position and pushed Solona out of the way so he could get to his feet. "So, Miss Prissypants Lightning-fingers, what exactly is it that you're so proud of? Or are you just enormously arrogant to hide your many inadequacies?"

Solona stood and glared darkly at him.

"I'm not the one who got arrested because I couldn't handle a few dogs!"

"They were _mabari war hounds_ , and, no, you wouldn't have gotten arrested. You would have gotten mauled and _eaten_ because you would have exhausted yourself on that one and only spell you know." He was standing over her, now, his arms crossed tightly over his chest and his eyes shooting daggers into hers.

She met his glare and returned it, but even in the dimness of the hallway, he could see her eyes faltering, her lips mashing together so he couldn't see them tremble. She clutched at her staff like it was the only thing holding her up, and he knew he'd broken through. If there was one thing he prided himself on, it was understanding people. He could be taken for a fool, oh yes. He was mortal and wasn't ashamed to admit it. But there were some things about people that were always the same no matter what race they were, no matter what land they hailed from.

The sort of pride he'd seen in Solona could only come from two places: possession by a demon or fear. Given that the mage clearly was no abomination, the odds were that she was deathly afraid of something. With how she belittled him from the very first moment they met, his bets had been on Solona being afraid of one of her own weaknesses. A big one. And given how tired he was of being given one electric shock after another, he figured it was because the mage had one trick up her sleeve and no other.

"We need to keep moving," Solona said after a long silence. "We still have one more floor to clear before we can be sure the building is safe." And with that, she walked away from him toward the end of the hallway and a flight of stairs. Her shoulders were set, her head held high, but he could see her fists trembling with rage.

Cyrano let out a heavy breath through his nose. He knelt to clean his daggers off on a ratty carpet that still clung to the dusty floor, the ichor smearing dark streaks across the rotting fibers. He only had to survive a week of this, he reminded himself. One week to prove to the Warden-Commander that he could be trusted. Perhaps that was actually the test. Not that he wouldn't try to assassinate the king or one of the banns. Not that he would steal something of value or act as a spy for someone else's political gain. He was coming to the realization that his test was if he could be trusted to not kill the Orlesian mage.

He hoped not. At this rate, it was a test he was bound to fail.


	3. Demon's Kiss

Cyrano collapsed against a wall, his chest heaving as he attempted to catch his breath. He was completely spent, and by the look of Solona, her eyes appearing sunken and her skin sallow, his companion was in desperate need of a breather as well. He rummaged in the small pack of supplies Shianni had given them for their task. His hand closed around a small vial full of a glowing blue liquid, and he carefully handed it to the mage.

She looked at him suspiciously for a moment, wiping spider ichor from her cheek with an already stained sleeve. It didn't take too long for common sense to overtake her pride. She reached out and took the vial of lyrium, uncorking it and draining it in one fluid motion. She then tossed the empty vial behind her where it landed and shattered in the midst of three eviscerated spider corpses.

The Antivan didn't have the energy to roll his eyes. The top floor of the apartment complex seemed to be the very core of the spider nest. Thick, sticky webbing as everywhere and even carpeted the wood floor. Massive cocoons of the stuff lay or hung about. Neither one of them had wanted to know what was inside, but now and then, Solona could feel the tug of lyrium and would find a small potion or borderline-useless magical trinket. Only once did she find something reasonably valuable when they happened upon the desiccated corpse of a Genlock, an amulet of a shining hardwood hung from his neck by a leather cord.

Solona had identified the amulet as elven, a particular wood that only they knew how to work with that Cyrano couldn't pronounce even if he tried. She gave it to him like so much garbage and claimed that its power would help him aim better. The way she said it made it sound like he couldn't hit a castle wall were it immediately in front of him. She was trying to save face. That much was obvious. It was like she was determined to prove that she was good at other things besides wielding lightning even if it meant touching rotten flesh and speaking to the Antivan rogue she so obviously abhorred.

"So who is Geoff?"

Now, Cyrano considered himself to be a sensible man. He knew the basic cardinal rules: the first being that curiosity kills, and the second being to never anger a mage freshly full of lyrium. However, Solona still looked weary even after downing the potion, her physical energy so completely spent that her limp frame slumped against the far wall of the corridor boosted the Antivan's confidence. His first impression of her had been so powerful that nothing she did would thwart his attempts to find the soul that she must have had hidden in there somewhere. The thick walls she kept so firmly around her made her all the more infuriatingly intriguing, and he was determined to somehow immortalize her in song…even if she turned out to be nothing more than a ritual sacrifice to the Old Gods.

A minute passed. Then a minute more. Cyrano blinked quietly as he realized that he was not blasted from all existence by white-hot aether.

Solona's stony façade melted a little. She was visibly too tired to argue, but Cyrano had no expectation that she would completely give in so easily.

"Geoff is my stepbrother," the mage responded simply, her grey eyes lowered as she pretended to be far more interested in a tear in her sleeve.

"I take it you're not close? From the sounds of what Shianni said—"

"Shianni should have known better than to bring him up," Solona snapped, her eyes flashing as they locked with Cyrano's. "I'm not talking about this with you. There's no point." She tried to get to her feet by pushing herself up the wall but didn't seem to be having much luck. She was still far too weary.

Cyrano glanced down the hallway where they had yet still to go. There were two more apartments and a storeroom to search and possibly clear, and he wasn't sure if either of them would have the energy to make the attempt within the hour let alone by dusk. A window in the room behind them filtered in the red-gold light of sunset through filthy, hastily-boarded panes.

"But I am sorry."

The Antivan stared at a beam of sunlight that played through the coarse hairs of one of the blighted spider corpses, making the foul fibrous chitin almost glitter with tangible irony. Or had he just heard something that sounded like irony? For a moment, he couldn't be sure.

Solona continued even though he didn't turn to look at her. "I didn't mean to…constantly shock you downstairs. Tight quarters make it difficult, and if I were to be useful, I didn't really have much of a choice other than to try to attack around you. …Which ended up that I attacked _through_ you…which is a more common occurrence than one would really like to think about when it comes to mages on the field of battle. So, yes, for that I'm sorry." Her words came faster and faster as they spilled forth, her arms and hands moving as if gesticulating truly would convey her point all the better.

Cyrano tore his gaze from the dead spider to take in the young woman across from him, the expression on her face one that at least had the appearance of genuine concern.

"The first thing you ever did to me, madam," he said flatly, not wanting to reveal how pleased he was with the development of her actually _speaking_ to him, "was shock me. Through iron manacles, I might add, and we weren't particularly in the middle of a battle at the time. I'd love to know what it was that motivated you then."

"That one was for you being obnoxious." The same smirk that had crossed her lips in the Warden-Commander's study made a reappearance, and Cyrano had to resist the urge to let himself feel bolder about tearing down her protective wall. _Lyrium_ , he reminded himself. _She's freshly full of lyrium._

The Antivan thought it high time that they get moving again, as much as he would have loved to try to continue the conversation. They were both still weary, spent from hours of wandering from room to room dealing with creatures easily three times larger than they. But they did it…they had to. Cyrano realized that blighted spiders were a task suited to a Grey Warden, but it had taken him a few encounters to think up why he had been sent along for the ride. He was expendable. Certainly, he had the support of Bann Athelstan from the position of an employer, a contract binding them both until it was completed, but the Warden-Commander had made it clear that she was testing his loyalty to _her_. Zevran had given her his. Cyrano hoped it was worth it enough to risk catching the blight sickness. That alone should tell the Warden-Commander something if he and Solona made it out of here alive.

"Look!" he would tell her. "I'm covered in corrupted spider ichor! Blood of some darkspawnish _thing_ has washed all over me like an angry tide! And not just one corrupted spider…dozens, a hundred, a swarm of abominable things that had no holy right to exist!"

She would probably dismiss him as being dramatic.

Cyrano rose to his feet and checked the condition of the daggers he had been given. He hadn't thought much of them at first. The blades looked entirely too common and had a dull sheen to them that belied their age. However, they had held up against the over-populated nest and still had an edge. Impressive. He might just ask to keep them were he not a much better hand with longswords, and those only because they lent him a longer reach. He so hated getting blood all over himself. It was messy and impossible to wash out. Or perhaps he'd simply taken too many jobs in Orlais.

He held out a hand to help Solona get to her feet. He expected that she would brush it aside out of pride or would take the opportunity to give him at least a small jolt, but she surprised him and did neither. She took his hand without visible or verbal complaint, and between his strength and her other hand propped against the wall, the mage rose shakily to her feet. She wavered a bit as she came away from the wall, but she maintained her balance well enough for Cyrano to let her go. In the last moment their hands touched, the Antivan felt a strange surge of strength flow through him, a feeling that didn't fade as if it had been a wave of adrenaline.

Solona shrugged. "So…I can do _one_ other spell. Just the one. I'll work on that." She smiled at him then, weakly, and began to walk toward the final rooms of the building.

Cyrano's eyes followed her for just a few moments before he thought to catch up. She had not only _not_ shocked him (with lightning, at least) at a prime opportunity, she had smiled—smiled!—at him. His mind immediately whirred to come up with a quick poem, a limerick, to capture the mage's brightening attitude toward him.

 _There once was a girl from Orlais, who…Blast it! What rhymes with "Orlais" that doesn't have_ something _to do with a brothel?_

~~~o~~~o~~~o~~~

Shianni was extremely pleased to learn that the abandoned apartment complex was cleared out (of spiders, at least) and even more pleased to see Cyrano's makeshift bandolier holding several vials of venom. On their way back out, Cyrano thought to put the empty vials that used to hold health poultices and lyrium (those that Solona hadn't unceremoniously smashed) to good use, capturing the poisonous essences of the corrupted creatures. If Shianni and the other elves had no use for them, the Antivan rogue knew that he certainly could.

The pair left the Elven Alienage as the first stars began to glimmer in a quickly darkening sky. Cyrano, his stomach rumbling in long-ignored hunger, suggested stopping at the tavern as they passed through the market. Solona emphatically pointed out that showing up to dine in spider-gut-encrusted clothing at a tavern the _nobility_ frequented was a particularly bad idea. The rogue's stomach would not be quieted, and Solona revealed that she, too, was famished. They reached a compromise by spending a few coppers on a loaf of bread from the open market that would hold them over until they made it back to the palace.

The banns had long since abandoned the entry hall and Landsmeet Chamber, and Cyrano had to admit that a quiet royal palace was a disconcerting one.

"Where is everyone?" he asked his companion in a hushed tone, taking note of the few guards stationed near doors that lead outside and intermittently through corridors. "You'd think a place like this…at a time like this…would be much more busy."

"What do you mean 'at a time like this?'" Solona replied curiously, though her expression held a tinge of familiar annoyance.

Cyrano threw his arms out to the sides and quickly dropped them. "This! A Blight is over, a new king on the throne, darkspawn still crawling about the surface where they shouldn't be, elves apparently being given more freedoms if not equal rights—and it's all too topsy-turvy to _not_ have this place bustling at all hours of the day or night."

"Even the loudest complainers need to sleep now and again," was all Solona said as she paused in front of an open doorway leading to a stairwell. "This is where I leave you. If you don't remember, your room is further down this hall then off to the left." She pointed.

Cyrano followed the line of her slender finger and nodded. "What are our duties on the morrow?"

"I'm quite aware of what _mine_ are, but if you are to have anything to do with them has yet to be determined." When Cyrano turned back to her, she had already gone. She had vanished up the stairs to leave behind only a whiff of spider nest and a hint of something sweeter. He couldn't place it, yet it tugged pleasantly at the back of his mind.

As he walked the rest of the way back to his chamber, he mused to himself:

_There once was a girl from Orlais_

_Who asked a young minstrel to play._

_He riddled and rhymed,_

_Such wit and well-timed!_

_In her court, she asked him to stay._

Now, there it was. Cyrano smiled to himself. His first love was slowly returning to him. It would take some effort, but he was convinced that taming the shrewish mage would give birth to a story yet. For now, with his body so weary and his mental power spent, he was certain that he could rest easy with only a limerick to show for accomplishment.

"Good evening, assassin."

Cyrano stopped in his tracks just paces shy of his door. The smile had instantly faded from his lips and he shot his gaze up from where he had been staring at the flagstones in front of him. Ser Ratham stood at his post outside the rogue's chamber, his face stoic and expressionless but his hard blue eyes taking in the disheveled Cyrano from head to toe. When he noticed the extent of the stains of blood and ichor, his nose wrinkled in disgust while his eyebrows rose as if moderately impressed.

"I'd be much obliged if you wouldn't call me that," Cyrano replied, keeping his tone civil.

"But is that not what you are?"

The rogue shook his head. "I was always ever the bard: born to a bard and raised as such. Only when I truly struggled did I make the mistake of letting the Crows take me in and train me otherwise."

Ratham's armor clanked slightly as he shrugged. "There is little difference between an assassin and a bard—especially where Antivans are concerned. So I hear."

"Are you sure you're quite well? It sounds to me, ser, as if you are intentionally striking up conversation, which is very unlike you." Cyrano made to move past him.

"I speak to those I respect," Ratham said, giving the rogue pause again. "I know darkspawn blood when I see it. I especially know it by the stench. Whatever you did today…you've done the city a service."

"Spiders…" Cyrano muttered. "I helped a mage kill a few spiders." He stepped into his room and closed the door behind him.

~~~o~~~o~~~o~~~

_Cyrano dreamt of Antiva City. He could even smell it in his sleep, the sweet and spicy cesspit that was the capital of his homeland. He dreamt he was at the slave market, the hot sun beating down on his bare head, his black hair soaking up the heat and making sweat bead up on his forehead. He saw children being bought by the Crows and destined to be rigorously trained as the deadliest assassins in all of Thedas. He saw young women, filthy and barely dressed, sold off to private buyers or brothels in the slums._

_He caught a whiff of something sweet amongst the stink of leather and milling bodies and looked up to see a raven-haired beauty with stunning black eyes. Her hips curved like a bell, and her bodice pushed up her breasts just enough to give the soft shadow of cleavage above the collar of her pale silken gown. She smiled mysteriously at him as she cooled herself with a fan of elegant white feathers. The breeze she created blew her subtle perfume in his direction, the tantalizing scent of river lilies._

_Bianca…._

_The scene warped, shifted, changed. Purple fire blazed across his vision while those eyes continued to haunt him. The slave market changed to a dark room with Bianca beneath him, her soft skin in his hands and her hair thrown over the pillow beneath her head. She cried out in pleasure and the scene changed again, her cry holding and escalating until it turned into one of terror. Bianca was clutching a small child to her bosom. It was a girl barely more than a babe, and Cyrano felt his chest tighten with fear and sadness. The woman and child were cowering from several shadowed figures. There were flashes of silver, and the scene was bathed in blood._

_His vision was once again clouded with brilliant purple flames, and a voice—her voice—carried to him in a painful echo._

" _Cyrano...my love. Why have you forgotten me?"_

Cyrano came awake with a start. His heart was racing and his body was soaked with sweat, making his longshirt and blankets stick to him. He cursed profusely and got up to splash cold water on his face. Memories were flooding back to him, things long buried though he couldn't recall quite how. A woman like Bianca was not the sort anyone would want to forget. He couldn't recall the last time he'd even thought of her.

But he was remembering. He remembered his wife. And his daughter. And why he turned to the Crows in his weakness.

And why he had so desperately needed to leave them.

The assassins had welcomed him with open arms when he asked if he could join their ranks, intent to avenge his family. They knew of his talent for espionage, especially when it came to operating in Orlais. He had provided vital information on a significant portion of the families of the chevaliers before he had even turned twenty, and the Crows thirsted for such a wealth of knowledge. They provided him a further skill in killing cleanly and silently with weapons instead of poison. He took contract after contract, hoping that it would eventually lead him to the target he most desired. Valdorio. He learned the name from a fellow Crow a couple of weeks after he'd joined.

Everyone knew the story, he was told. Cyrano had once been a performer in the courts of both Orlesian and Antivan gentry. His marriage to Bianca Alighieri had sparked Valdorio's ire, for he had long since had his eyes on her, his advances repeatedly scorned as in any classic tale of unrequited love. Her eyes had been for Cyrano since he served in her father's house. None other would do. Cyrano had made a point to remark when he was initially told this that he had never even heard of a Valdorio, let alone that such a man had long pined for his wife, the daughter of a common (albeit wealthy) ore merchant.

Bianca's origins made little difference. She was a great beauty and had apparently snubbed the wrong man. Valdorio made another classic move and killed both her and the child she bore by Cyrano. The bard was certain he had said something equally classic or overdone in the story, exclaiming, "If I can't have her, no one can!" But he could not look back on his wife's death with wry humor.

His time with the Crows never brought him any closer to Valdorio. How long had he searched? A decade? Perhaps more? The memories eventually hit a wall, and there was a blank space where he couldn't recall a thing—not where he was nor what he did nor who he was with—until the Blight was declared in Ferelden. Cyrano rubbed at his temples then splashed still more water onto his face. Why now?

The door to his chamber burst open and Ser Ratham and Solona rushed in, the guard with his sword at the ready and the mage with a rather frightened look on her face.

"What's going on?" she asked him, looking about the room as if there had been a brawl. "Why didn't you answer us? We've been knocking and shouting through the door for... Ser Ratham said you were screaming."

The guard made a circuit of the room then sheathed his weapon when he found no one else and no sign of any struggle.

"Last time I heard screams like that, it was when I was observing some templars interrogating a blood mage," Ratham commented dryly, crossing his arms and coming to stand next to Solona. He towered over her, but she did not look frail beside him. The mage stood with proud bearing as always, her shoulders broad, her hips curving like a bell, her eyes-

Cyrano blinked in disbelief. Solona's eyes were the wrong color, but they had that same sharpness. Her lips were of a similar fullness and her cheekbones equally high. She was not an exact likeness to his wife, but it was close enough that he now understood why he'd felt such a strong draw toward her. He had not consciously remembered. He had merely instinctively known.

He suddenly felt sick to his stomach, feverish and cold, his legs barely having the strength to hold him. He reached a hand out to Solona as if trying to touch her to see if she were even real. His vision was blurring, fading, filling with a murky darkness.

"Cyrano!" Solona rushed toward him as he stumbled. She caught him just before his head could hit the floor. He saw blackness. Then, her face came back into view, her expression concerned and fearful. "Ratham...get Wynne. His eyes, do you see them? He needs a spirit healer. Now!"


	4. A Whim and a Dare

Cyrano couldn't be sure how long he slept. He couldn't even say if he rested easy or fitfully or even dreamed. He remembered long periods of blackness punctuated with blurry images of an older woman with a kindly face. The word that came to mind for her was "motherly". She was always at his bedside. Other images that came and went were more familiar. He recognized the Warden-Commander, most often talking to the motherly woman. Solona was there from time to time, giving him varying expressions ranging from worry to frustration.

When he came fully awake, the motherly woman was standing over by a window speaking lowly to Kallian. He could see the Commander's face. It was grim, her smooth brow furrowed. She caught his eyes on her and nodded. That attracted the motherly woman's face as well.

She was a mage—or at least dressed as such. Her robes were similar to Solona's, and the Chantry seal was buckled around her waist. Her white hair was neatly combed back and tied away from her face. Her grey eyes were warm, and when she saw that he was awake, she smiled.

"Glad to see you back with us, Master Rideri," she said, her voice warm like her eyes and smile. Yes, definitely motherly. "We were worried that you might succumb to the blight sickness."

"I'm sure I've had worse." His voice was a dry croak. His skull felt like it had been cracked open then crudely stitched back together.

"I'm inclined to agree." He recognized the Commander's lilting voice as she stepped over to the side of the bed. "You talk in your sleep, ser, and what you had to say was…disturbing."

Cyrano let his eyebrows rise and fall, his mouth twisting in a wry grimace. "If I said anything about the loose ladies of Val Royeaux, I do humbly apologize."

"That part of your private life remains so, ser," Kallian said with a smirk, "but we will need to know if the Crows employ any blood mages. In the meantime, you'll want to drink this." She pointed to a silver goblet on the small table by the bed. It was simply carved and looked unremarkable, but it still somehow chilled his very bones.

"What are you prescribing?"

Wynne stepped forward, "Kallian, I understand that it's the only cure…but you should honestly give him a _choice_ in the matter."

The Commander nodded and fixed her gaze on Cyrano, her clear eyes boring into his feverish ones. "You've become infected with the blight, bard, it's as simple as that. I am sorry…not everyone who combats blighted things becomes infected, but there is always a chance. The only remedy is to become a Grey Warden, and that is exactly what I'm prescribing you. You've held off against the blight sickness for several days, and that's a very good sign that you'll, likewise, survive the Joining."

Cyrano looked from woman to woman, Kallian and Wynne at his bedside, Solona gnawing on her fingernails at the foot of it. She wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were lowered to the floor, but her body language said everything. Her shoulders were hunched, her left arm wrapped tightly about her ribs while her right elbow braced against it. He suspected it made the fingernail gnawing easier. Was it guilt she was feeling? Fear? He couldn't be certain, but she definitely wasn't remotely comfortable with the situation. Wynne also looked concerned.

Only Kallian behaved like it was just another item on her list of daily chores. Her face was calm and her stance casual. She wasn't even wearing armor, which would have left Cyrano feeling a lot more impressed had he the energy. She wore a simple dress of a dark yellow linen that enhanced the green of her eyes and the fiery red of her hair. A leather girdle was cinched about her already slim waist, and it left her looking deceptively feminine.

The bard turned his attention back to the goblet and gulped with difficulty, the dryness in his throat leaving him almost no spit to swallow. For all of his wanderings and through all his adventures, he never once thought he'd become the subject of one of his own stories. Tales of Grey Warden heroes were very popular with small children, but he was experienced enough to know that the reality was likely very different. Damn his self-preservation.

"What happens," he asked uncertainly, "to become a Grey Warden?"

Kallian shrugged, nonchalant. "I say a few words; you take a swig; then you either pass out for a few hours or you die. It's pretty simple, honestly."

"Commander!"

The outburst was from Solona. She was visibly appalled and quickly strode to Cyrano's opposite bedside almost as if in his defense.

"The man has nightmares enough! Surely you can spare him worse…don't do this."

Kallian's expression didn't change as she regarded her subordinate.

"Your own fears are irrelevant here, Solona. I am giving him the choice even if it doesn't seem like much of one."

Cyrano chuckled a little at the irony. "Indeed. According to you, if I don't drink the concoction, I'll die. If I _do_ drink the concoction, I'm only half as likely to die."

"You'll die either way," Solona snapped bitterly. "Neither option is a mercy." She turned and fled from the room, then, her subtle perfume clinging to the air in her wake. The bard wasn't certain, but he thought he had seen her eyes shining with tears. He wasn't about to assume they were for him.

He looked back to the Warden-Commander, her arms crossed over her chest and her face expectant. "Well?" she asked. "Will you allow yourself to become a ghoul and have me kill you, or will you join the Wardens?"

Cyrano laboriously pushed himself up into a seated position as best he could, his longshirt and blankets still damp with the sweat of his fever. He could see the blood vessels through his significantly paler skin, a grayness flowing through them that he found disturbing. He also felt dizzy, a slight buzzing (or whispering?) in his ears that made it hard for him to focus. Kallian reached next to her and picked up the goblet with both hands, presenting it to him formally with a deep nod of her head. When she looked up at him again, seeing him raise the silver to his lips, she spoke.

"Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you."

The liquid in the goblet filled his mouth, a thick red substance with a bitter taste and a sharp tingle. For a moment, the whispering in his ears grew louder, almost deafening, and then…he heard no more. He collapsed back into the blackness.

~~~o~~~o~~~o~~~

Cyrano could not remember his dreams when he awoke. Some small part of him, a tiny voice in the back of his head, proclaimed as loudly as it could that this was a very, very good thing. He did not feel rested ("weak" was a better word), but he could tell the fever was broken. His breathing was easier. His throat was no longer parched, and his head didn't ache. He also wasn't dead. That alone was a brilliant development.

It was dark in his room, a single tallow candle burning at his bedside to fend off the deep night. A figure sat in a chair that had been dragged over from in front of the hearth. Solona was there, her body slouched to one side as she slept. Her hair had come undone from its bindings and fell in dark waves around her face. Even in slumber, her brow was furrowed with worry and her jaw clenched. Her hands twitched reflexively as if she were about to cast some spell. Partially out of an urge to comfort her but mostly out of a desire to not be spontaneously electrocuted, Cyrano reached over and squeezed one of her hands.

Her eyes popped open, the gray orbs immediately alert and regarding him intensely. Her facial expression was flat and unrevealing. She didn't move from her position, didn't suddenly spring forth and clamp him in a hug. No, he should know far better than to expect that…though he couldn't help but admit that it would have been nice at that particular juncture. She did, however, squeeze his hand in return and didn't relax her grip. She held his hand like he was going to suddenly be ripped from her by a mighty wind or tear in the Veil.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Cyrano cocked an eyebrow. "That's the second time you've apologized to me, madam, and you should really stop. Guilt doesn't become you."

"You don't know what this means for you," she went on. "To be a Grey Warden is to live a life of death and constant nightmares. You are bonded to the darkspawn collective mind. They will know you as easily as you will know them. They will hunt you as you hunt them, and they will be relentless. And then, one day…you will leave as we all must leave…and journey to the Deep Roads…and never return."

She choked on a sob and raised her free hand to wipe away the tears.

"My step-brother, Geoff, was a Grey Warden. Years ago, he had me recruited to keep me safe from the Templars, for this is the only place outside the Circle a mage can be safe. He was Called to the Deep Roads long before we had any notion that a Blight was coming and barely before my Joining was completed. If it weren't for Riordan, I probably would have gone mad."

"Mad from the whispers?" Cyrano pushed himself up so that he was sitting comfortably, so that he could keep his attention fully on her.

Solona sniffed and shook her head. "Geoff was the only family I had left. My father was of the Dalish, a Keeper but banished for his love of a human woman. He taught me how to control my magic, to not fall prey to demons. When Templars killed him, my mother had no choice but to marry again to support us. Her new husband was a lesser noble in Orlais…I never knew his name. He tried to send me to the Circle practically the day Mother and I moved into his house, but Geoff…. Geoff was his youngest son and already a Warden for several years. I was a child, but he evoked the right of conscription and took me to the Warden headquarters in Val Royeaux. It was for protection only. I wasn't trained further in magic, and I spent most of my time disguised as a Chantry sister until I was old enough for the Joining."

Cyrano squeezed her hand tighter but couldn't suppress an ironic smile. "A Chantry sister…with blood writing."

The mage touched her fingers to her chin and cheeks, her tears subsiding as she became more confused than upset.

"How do you know such things? Dalish traditions are—"

"What, kept secret? Especially from _shemlen_?" His smiled broadened. "I'm a bard, my girl, don't forget this. I've also been around a lot longer than you. I thought it was just a pretty tattoo until you told your story."

Solona blinked at him, a slight scowl marring the intricate design on her forehead. She let go of his hand almost like she were tossing it away as so much refuse. "What Dalish would trust you to know the tradition of blood writing?"

"A drunk one." Cyrano shrugged. "The Crows had sent me to assassinate the leader of a group of hunters that had encroached on their territory outside of Antiva City. It was probably the best job I ever had. I set up a fake camp, roasted rabbit, played music…it was like my very own party just without the guests. The hunters arrived to try to kill _me_ , but I had the added benefit of a well-aged Antivan brandy. It was a fool's hope that inviting them for a drink would actually work, but they had a reverted city elf in their band. We drank to Andruil and traded stories all night. Some things probably shouldn't have been said…like I really didn't want to know all the different uses for a broken halla horn…but there it is."

"…and you killed them?"

"Oh, Maker's breath, no. They gave me a couple of their bows and a dagger or two. It was good enough for Ignacio."

The mage relaxed a bit at that, her eyes still red from weeping, but she had otherwise calmed from her earlier anguish. Cyrano puzzled over why his being made a Warden would upset her so much. They were only just now becoming anything resembling proper friends, and unless he somehow reminded her of Geoff otherwise, there was little to connect the two. Was she bitter about having been made a Warden out of necessity rather than choice? Did she always, therefore, see it as a lack of choice and begrudge it on that? It was an oddly logical response if not the correct one. Cyrano did have to admit that, at least in his situation, choosing a prolonged death rather than a quick one was a poorly mixed blessing.

 _But what have you left to live for?_ Bianca's voice acted like his common sense, but it was ridiculously pessimistic where she had never been. The time when he had nothing left to live for was long past. The Warden-Commander was giving him a second chance at his nearly ruined life, and with it came a completely new purpose. He never thought himself as a warrior against the darkspawn, a force against the frequent antagonists in his own epic stories, but he couldn't exactly say it was the worst thing that ever happened to him.

"Where is Kallian?" he asked. He knew the answer was probably something along the lines of, "In bed, you idiot," but he felt inclined to ask, anyway. He had expected her to also keep some sort of vigil until he awoke if he was now to serve her and the Wardens.

"She went to Amaranthine some days ago," Solona replied. "The darkspawn didn't retreat back into the Deep Roads like they should have once the Archdemon was destroyed. It's her responsibility to go and handle that. She's hoping to increase our numbers while she's out there."

"Did the king go with her?"

Solona gave him a quizzical expression but nodded shallowly. "Yes," she replied slowly. "He did, to…check on things…make sure everything was in proper order and that the army didn't need to intervene." Her speech got faster as she went as if she were growing more comfortable with the lie. "But he's back, now. He gave me sealed instructions from Kallian. They're for the both of us if you recovered—and you have."

"Well?"

The mage shook her head. She got to her feet and brushed the wrinkles out of her robes. It was then Cyrano could see exactly how disheveled she was. Her robes were deeply creased behind her from sitting in the chair for so long. The candlelight played off the features of her face in a different way, now, the angle showing exactly how gaunt she had become. She hadn't eaten, from the looks of things, or slept well. In fact, had she even left his bedside?

"We'll deal with it later," Solona said. "Right now, we both need some proper sleep, and you haven't eaten any real food since Wynne was last able to look after you. She left at the same time as Kallian." She made a move for the door.

"Thank you," Cyrano said causing the mage to pause and blink at him. "Thank you for staying with me…and telling me about Geoff."

Solona's was a warm smile that turned into her tantalizingly wicked smirk. "Consider it the first of an exchange. For all you talk in your sleep, I find myself dying to know who this Bianca is. And Valdorio…the 'witless cur', I believe you called him. But sleep, first. We'll talk again later." And with that, she left the room.

~~~o~~~o~~~o~~~

It was two more days before Cyrano was strong enough to get out of bed and a third day before he could properly move about the royal palace for any length of time. He felt odd in a way, almost as if his reflexes were slightly faster than normal. When he neared the dining hall for his first meal outside of his room in weeks, he got the distinct feeling that someone was watching him…but he couldn't see anyone at all. No one save Ser Ratham, who never left his side these days—but the guard didn't have that creepy stalker feeling about him. Cyrano was at a loss.

Solona and King Alistair were the only ones in the dining hall apart from a small entourage of servants, and the King immediately waved Cyrano over to have a seat. The long wooden table was laden with foodstuffs of all kinds, perhaps enough to feed half the palace guard, and the Antivan felt his mouth water at the sight of it all. His stomach rumbled. He was absolutely famished.

"Now, there's a healthy appetite," Alistair commented with a smile as Cyrano attacked a leg of turkey with ravenous jaws. "I think, perhaps…emptying the pantry wasn't quite enough. Solona, did you notify the Gnawed Noble that we'd need some catering?"

"I'm sorry, sire, but it completely slipped my mind. Were you expecting more guests?"

"No, but I think the Antivan might eat us out of house and home at this rate." He watched as Cyrano piled his plate with buttered bread and boiled potatoes, roast goose and collard greens. "I had no idea that Antivans eat their own bodyweight every morning."

"Perhaps it's Tuesday?"

Alistair appeared to count on his fingers briefly. "Nope. Not Tuesday. Tuesday is the day for ritual dismemberments. Or was that the hunt for zombie cats? Maker's teeth, here I am King for only a few months, and I've already forgotten all the public holidays…."

"Then perhaps it's Feastday! If not, you _are_ the King. By all means, make it Feastday!"

"No. The last time it was Feastday, Kallian thought she'd be sweet and get me this wonderful present. She did the same for everyone else, too, apparently. All day—and for weeks afterwards—I kept feeling like I was getting stuck with pins." He looked over to Cyrano. "For the love of Andraste, good man, aren't you done, yet?"

Cyrano was refilling his plate for probably the third time but paused mid-grab for a still steaming dinner roll to regard the King. The younger man maintained a serious expression, steeling his golden eyes…for all of three seconds before he burst into laughter. The Antivan wasn't sure if he should be more shocked by that or the fact that Solona had completely joined in on the mirth, her face dropped into her hands as her shoulders shook in a fit of giggles.

"Am I…missing something? Do I have garnish caught in my teeth?" The bard picked at his front teeth with a fingernail just to be safe.

Alistair wiped at his eyes. His cheeks were red from laughing so hard and it took him a moment to catch his breath.

"It's only tradition," he told Cyrano reassuringly. "Becoming a Grey Warden generally makes you hungry enough to eat a bear. And then a horse. And maybe a few dragonlings for their unique texture."

Solona made a face. "I could never eat dragonlings no matter how hungry I was," she said. "They remind me too much of kittens."

Cyrano sputtered out the water he had been drinking. Catching himself, he quickly recovered and wiped at his mouth with a serviette. "Kittens!" he exclaimed. "Madam, _kittens_ rub up against your leg and purr and, at the very worst, trip you with their display of affection. They don't swoop down from Maker-knows-where and _eat you_."

"Good point," Alistair agreed. "Swooping is—"

The doors at the far end of the dining hall thundered open. All three sitting at the table turned abruptly to look, and Cyrano in particular was intrigued at the figure walking towards them. It was a guard from the looks of it, but there was something in his bearing that the bard thought out of place. Helmeted, his entire face was concealed and the armor had nothing to identify it other than the sigil of Redcliffe. When he reached the table, the guard bowed and removed his helmet.

The face underneath was that of a man of about forty summers and not a day older than Cyrano himself. His hair hung long around his ears and was a dark brownish red. His eyes twinkled with some unknown mirth and were surrounded by laugh lines. Despite that, the look on his face still managed to be somewhat grim.

"Bad news, my King," he said, his voice a warm tenor. "The mercenaries that holed up in the Gnawed Noble still refuse to leave. Worse, they're holding a Chantry sister captive."

The King ran a hand through his sandy hair and stood. He regarded the newcomer evenly and heaved a breath as if he had just made some profound decision.

"Have you contacted Raelnor of the Irregulars? If anyone can deal with mercenaries, it's more mercenaries."

"Is that your idea of fighting fire with fire? Alistair, the last thing you want to throw into a brewing drunken tavern brawl is more drunken brawlers."

Alistair shrugged. "What would you suggest, Bann Teagan? It's not like I have an elven duelist in my pocket that I can chuck in there and sort it out…right now…or at any point in the immediate future." He sighed, almost dismally, and plopped back into his seat.

Cyrano raised an eyebrow at the King before glancing at Solona. She was looking at the King, herself, with a very strange expression on her face. He couldn't tell if it was confusion or disgust or Dear-Maker-this-is-the-man-that-leads-us? As if snapping out of some thought, she turned to regard Cyrano, the expression changing only slightly as if to communicate, "Now what?"

The Antivan turned to Teagan and cleared his throat.

"You must forgive me, ser…but what exactly is going on? I'd love to be able to assist you. However, this situation is news to me. Last time I set foot in the Gnawed Noble, Edwina was the only thing anyone had to worry about, and not even the most unruly mercenary dared to mess with her."

The bann shrugged and patiently explained the situation. A new band of mercenaries had come into the city within the past couple of weeks, ethnically ambiguous and unanimously rude. There were as many Fereldens in their numbers as there were Antivans, Orlesians, or Rivaini, and the local intelligence had yet to infiltrate them deep enough to figure out who pulled the strings. They set up shop at the Gnawed Noble Tavern after an unsuccessful stint at the Pearl. Problems truly hadn't sparked until that morning when a lesser bann confronted one of them about having accosted his sister, and the result was a slippery slope downward that left the mercenaries in charge of the tavern, threatened any and all legitimate business in Denerim Market, and had Arl Eamon's estate locked up with frightened locals.

"There aren't even all that many of them!" Teagan exclaimed. "They had the element of surprise more than anything else meshed with a convenient power vacuum." He looked to the King pointedly. "You should not have followed the Warden-Commander to Amaranthine. I don't care your feelings about her or how serious the situation at Vigil's Keep turned out to be. You're King, now, Alistair, and your duty is to your people."

"I am also a Grey Warden—"

"So is Solona. If it were a matter of Kallian needing a Warden to aid her, she could have easily gone instead of you."

The mage stood at the sound of her name and looked directly at Bann Teagan. Cyrano hoped she could say something to end the growing awkwardness before it exploded into something truly unsavory. If he knew his current politics, Teagan was Alistair's uncle, and there wasn't anything the Antivan liked less than being caught in the middle of familial spats.

"Kallian gave me orders of my own, Bann Teagan," she said respectfully if a little testily. "Even had Alistair been here when the mercenaries arrived, what were _we_ supposed to do? I don't recall the city guard keeping us well informed, and until now there was nothing of note reported."

"Indeed," Cyrano commented dryly. "To think that I could have been sparring with human mercenaries instead of blighted spiders. I might be a little more alive than I feel right now."

"Arguing won't solve anything," Alistair spoke up. "If I don't send anyone into the tavern to help the Chantry sister, the Templars will. Rather…the Templars wouldn't send anyone. They'd just burn the place to the ground like some divine purge." He got back to his feet and looked Bann Teagan straight in the eye. "Since the city seems to hold me accountable, I'll go myself."

Teagan shook his head. "Alistair, that's not at all what I meant when—"

"I'll have help, don't worry." The King looked to Solona and Cyrano in turn. "If I can't attack mercenaries with mercenaries, I'll go after them with Grey Wardens."

Teagan dropped his face into his palm.

"What?" Alistair asked innocently, a playful grin suddenly on his face. "I dare those mercenaries to even try to stand against those that kill darkspawn for a living."


	5. Trust in the Inevitable

The remainder of the morning was spent in preparation. Alistair went with Bann Teagan to the Market District to see for himself the extent of the situation. He was also intent to learn exactly why he hadn't been informed sooner it matters were truly so grave. Cyrano had his ideas, of course, mostly pertaining to the lovely, young, royal widow still imprisoned in her late father's Denerim estate. Rumors abounded that many a Fereldan was still torn between love for the ancient line of Calenhad and the benevolence of a queen born common but nonetheless proven capable.

The very thought that Anora could have had some hand in this was intriguing at the same time it was horrifying. Cyrano relished the thought. It was pure genius, really. Cause just enough chaos that no one can place the whos the whats or the whys to and don't even bat an eyelash when, suddenly, all the blame lies with the Howes. It had worked for her father for a time.

There were also the Orlesian Wardens that Solona had initially come with. They had separated at Denerim for the bulk to go to Vigil's Keep, but who was to say that more hadn't stayed behind and just gone rogue? Or that Anora, in that devious way she could ever possibly think, would use them as further scapegoats. Cyrano sighed through his nose, his chin resting in his palms. No. He couldn't honestly see it being Anora even for all her anger and frustration and terrible sadness. The bard had played court to she and King Cailan some years before when he'd been passing through on his way back to Antiva, and she was ever the pragmatist but not the sort to play dirty. She would seek her lost throne honestly before resorting to mercenary tactics.

No matter how he put it to himself, Cyrano simply couldn't see the former queen moving in such a way against Alistair. It was _he_ who helped to end the Blight. _He_ who had the Hero of Ferelden at his right hand. For the foreseeable future, the people would hang upon his every word and deed as if he were Andraste reborn.

"Well? Are you coming along or not?"

Cyrano started from his ponderings. His eyes leaped from the empty plate in front of him (had he four helpings or five?) and came up to meet the sternly inquisitive look Solona was giving him. There wasn't the same frustrated impatience as before. A tragedy, as he had grown so accustomed to it. But he couldn't complain about finally seeing the true face of a woman who was just as vulnerable as any other living being. She was the princess that could defend herself from the dragon...but still knew when the indefatigable beast was too much for simply one to handle.

"Where are we going?"

And there came the all-familiar exasperated sigh. How he had missed it these last days! He couldn't help the pleased smirk that twisted his lips. The world simply could not be the same were this woman suddenly so complacent towards him. For all it had annoyed him earlier, Cyrano rather liked the feeling of being kept on his toes. Now, more than ever, it reminded him that he was still alive and that his life literally could be dangling by the lightning-imbued little finger of the mage's dainty hand.

"To the armory," Solona hissed through her teeth. "Have you not been paying attention to anything I've said?"

"I confess my mind was elsewhere," he admitted as he got to his feet, hands upon his stomach to gauge exactly how full he was. It already felt like he was growing hungry again. "When it comes to such matters as this, motive is the key to the solution. Why cause bother in a tavern? Why appear to be rebels without a cause? If these mercenaries have no identity, they must still have a _reason_ for all being where they are and doing what they're doing. And why be so fierce that the city guard don't dare approach? I thought the Dog Lords to be made of sterner stuff."

Solona actually appeared to grow thoughtful as they left the dining room behind and walked along the adjoining gallery that would take them outside.

"My worry is that they might be distracting attention away from something else-somewhere else," she replied. "The fencing master's feint. Orlesian politics is full of such tactics."

"As with Antivans. But Fereldans are nothing if not straightforward. Our foe, madam, I believe to be foreign."

"The one pulling the strings, yes. I'm inclined to agree."

The woman nodded to a pair of guards set at either side of a large wooden door braced with black iron. One pushed it open with relative ease though the old hinges gave a mighty groan of protest. Inside was a great storeroom of deceptive simplicity. Orlesians stored their arms in guilded halls. Antivans maintained them in galleries akin to shrines. Fereldans maintained dark stone rooms with thick wooden beams that were dry and adequate, sized just large enough to store what was needed without any pomp or pretentiousness. Weapons were carefully displayed on simple wooden racks or within sturdy crates and chests, sheathed where necessary. Armor resided on racks sized for each suit but little more than a pine shaft with a crossbeam the width of the shoulders.

Cyrano stopped to examine a breastplate of studded leather. There was nothing profound about the design or special about the texture or wear. However, there was an uncanny elegance in the sheer _lack_ of more than what was necessary that the Antivan couldn't help but admire it. In a dark alley with nothing but a dagger with which to strike, any assassin could have found confidence in his own protection in armor such as this.

It was a work simpler still that caught his eye. A suit of leather without the studs left nowhere for light to glint from. Even the metal buckles had been dulled and allowed an appropriate level of tarnish. There was some toolwork along the collar and shoulders, but it was only noticeable when truly up close. He tried the suit on out of pure curiosity.

"It suits you," Solana complimented with an approving nod. She walked over to him from her place by a rack of swords and daggers to have a better look. "It was perhaps not meant for one so broad in the shoulder, but I can't say that it's too small." Her hands ran along the seams to make sure everything could fasten securely. Once finished with her inspection, she stepped back and gave him a small smile. "I doubt anything even the Crows possess could compare."

"You show an odd appreciation for Fereldan handiwork."

She shrugged and turned back to the weapons. "These are the Commander's property. She gathered them during the Blight and has made them available to any Wardens that come to Ferelden."

"Kept in common with everything else?" Cyrano scoffed, sure that even a country as poor as this one could not afford such treasures to be held by just anyone. "Any guard could come in here and claim one of these. Here. A dagger of finest Nevarran steel. And this-" he took down a longsword bound in blue-stained leather with a silver griffon blazoned on the pommel "-a relic of the Grey Wardens of old, no doubt."

The weight of it was sublimely balanced. It could be drawn from its sheath with such ease despite the apparent age. The blade was sharp and strong, burnished metal gleaming in the light of the surrounding torches. Cyrano fell into a stance or two and closed one eye to gauge the straightness of the metal. It was, in all ways, perfect.

He turned back around to find another, slinging his first treasure over his head and shoulder so that it would be at the ready of his right hand. There was no twin to the Grey Warden sword, but he found a match well enough in a fencing blade from his favored Orlais. Surrounded by everything else, it had stood out but in a way that made it feel out of place rather than special. There were no defining marks, no stamps of famous makers or hint of precious stones. But it had that particular curve to the handguard and slenderness to the grip that it was like wielding a most deadly glass of wine. It cut through the air with ease and grace and joined the other longsword upon Cyrano's back.

A dagger he took next. He chose a simple blade of white steel that looked no different from one carried by any guard. This, he slipped into his belt before turning to his companion for final inspection. He had dressed and armed himself for years, but donning the mantle of a Grey Warden held its own particular gravity that was quite alien to him.

The mage stood as she often did when considering something with any intensity. One arm crossed her ribcage while the other elbow braced upon it, pressing the knuckles of one fist to her mouth. Her dark brows furrowed above her nose, and her pale eyes narrowed as they took Cyrano in from head to foot.

"Barbaric," she commented at last with what seemed like a feigned haughtiness, "positively provincial." Her lips parted in a wide smile. "There are none who would take you for a Crow."

He returned her expression. There was something exhilarating even in that tiny emphasis on his freedom. He had been imprisoned by the Warden-Commander, and, likely, word had already spread of his inevitable execution. He was as safe as rumor could ever be expected to keep him. Beyond that, it would be prudent not to go and make a name for himself.

"Come," Solana said, suddenly grabbing Cyrano by the arm and pulling him out of the armory and into a courtyard brightly bathed in sunlight. "I want to show you something."

The Antivan allowed himself to be towed along into the squarish space paved with slate and populated solely by urns of potted, colorful flowers. The smile he already wore widened at the excitement his companion obviously felt about whatever this was she was dragging him into, and he couldn't help but savor the thought that she no longer begrudged him his very presence. Her hand was soft and gripped his tightly, unashamed and not showing a hint of squeamishness.

"Stand there," she commanded when they reached the center of the space. Cyrano did as he was told while his companion walked back at least half the distance they had come. Solana then took the time to adjust her robes, rolling up the sleeves a little and making sure nothing was dangling or could otherwise hinder her. The dark steel of her mage's staff was then brought to bear.

Suddenly, this didn't bode so well.

"During the time Wynne and the Commander were fussing over you, I studied."

Cyrano's breath escaped him in one short burst. He wasn't sure if he were impressed or appalled. "You studied? I was lying on my deathbed while you read books?"

Solana shrugged innocently. "Did you not tell me that you have been known to make music while entire cities burn?"

"Touche..."

"All I need is for you to trust me. I've been practicing, but I've reached the point where I need to make sure that it works. Mabari just don't react the same way that a human would."

He gulped. As he watched her give a shout and raise first her staff then her free hand and call down light from the heavens, he braced for the pain. He could always trust that magic would bring pain. What happened next surprised him a little. Instead of being struck down by the lightning he was expecting, he found his entire body consumed by a faint greenish light. Something surged through him, some power he couldn't place but that made him feel like he could carve a mountain into the likeness of Andraste with his bare hands.

The mage came over to walk around him. She eyed him up and down to see the results of her handiwork before nodding sharply and backing away. "Now, hold still."

 _Here it comes_ , he groaned inwardly. He held his breath and screwed his eyes shut. He heard the familiar crackle and smelled the ozone, and it felt like an entire Age went by before he felt the jolt of the white-hot aether. Jaw clamped shut and trying not to scream, Cyrano balled his hands into fists whether he had intended to or not. Every nerve was on fire, and the insides of his eyelids were ablaze with all the colors of carnival banners. The lightning stopped. The electrified sensation slowly abated. When Cyrano opened his eyes again, he was hale and still on his feet. That he was amazed was more than an understatement.

Solana had kept her eyes shut as well, apparently. When the bard looked back up at his companion, he saw her slowly prying one eye open, her pretty face turned to the side as if she had been afraid that her magic might cause something unsavory to happen. Something more unsavory than usual. Relief washed over her when she saw that he was alright. Sagging against a tall urn of flowers, she laughed.

"It worked!" she breathed. And she laughed again, giddy and grateful all at once.

It was some time more before the green light faded and Cyrano returned to feeling like normal. He continued to be none the worse for wear. "Yes...I suppose it did...whatever it was that you tried to do to me."

The woman was almost too excited to explain. She went on at some length about magic that targeted the spirit of another, their very life essence, and manipulated it to be stronger. It was how standard healing spells worked, but others could operate off the same principle. There were still other spells, she said more gravely, that could turn that same energy against a person. She was studying up on those things as well though had no intention of ever inflicting them upon Cyrano's person.

"What, not even on accident because I'm in the way? Madam, I'm hurt!"

Solona's eyes went wide in alarm at first, looking at every visible part of him for signs of injury. Then, a reaction much too slow in coming, she stopped in her actions and smiled when she finally understood the playful sarcasm.

"For a moment...I worried that..." She couldn't finish for the embarrassment. A hot blush rose to her cheeks as she turned away, squaring her shoulders and trying to regain her composure. When she didn't turn back around to face him, Cyrano got the distinct impression that she was failing in her goal.

He stepped over and laid a hand on her shoulder, not letting her move away any further until he could see the truth of it. "You worried that you really had hurt me?" His voice was gentle despite his amusement. "I thought my every breath was an inconvenience."

It should have been completely impossible that she could blush further. Her cheeks were already such a glowing red that it would have put roses to shame. Still, she managed.

"Do not remind me how cruel I was."

Cyrano laughed, "How can I not? It's one of the most charming things about you." He traced the line of her jaw with a finger. "At least that's what I thought when I swore to the Maker you must be a demon in the guise of such a-"

He broke off, unable to finish when the memories of his wife's face flashed across his vision in that horrible violet flame. She was dead a decade or more, but it was only now that she saw fit to haunt him. It was its own particular tragic irony.

"No...Bianca..."

The Antivan pressed his palms to his eyes and rubbed vigorously. Try as he might, he could not banish this particular vision. His beloved wife's face smiled at him with such serenity at first that he wondered why he was rebelling against it. But that serenity shifted, darkening into a sneer so vile, he couldn't believe that Bianca had ever been capable of such. There was a sort of cackle, though he couldn't tell from where it came. If his mind were capable of such horrors, he must certainly be going mad. Perhaps it was the taint.

Stumbling backward, Cyrano bumped against an urn and fell to the ground. Solona was at his side in an instant. She pulled at his hands in an attempt to get him to open his eyes, but no amount of begging on her part seemed to get through. He was lost, trapped in a torment he didn't have the sense to break from let alone explain.

 _Why have you forgotten me,_ Bianca demanded, a mocking grin on that terrible countenance. _Why should a disowned mageling ever replace me?_ He felt an odd whisping of the air against his cheek as if ghostly fingers caressed his skin. _Come to me, beloved. Come and be with me again_.

"Cyrano!"

His eyes popped open to Solona shaking him by both shoulders. The lines of the vallaslin were no longer smooth as her forehead creased in worry. Cyrano looked up at her in bewilderment. For a moment, he was totally unsure of where he was and was already losing all sense of what had so frightened him. Seeing the dead was difficult enough to explain. Being crippled by what should have truly been a pleasant memory was a horror all its own.

"Cyrano," Solona breathed with relief when she saw his eyes become lucid again, "thank the Maker! You were muttering again-Bianca and Valdorio." She grabbed his face with both hands to make him look at her. "Who are they?"

"My wife..." he rasped, feeling the draw of unconsciousness threaten, "...and the man who killed her."

The mage slapped his cheeks soundly to bring him back to wakefulness. "Don't you dare." She gritted her teeth and quickly reached to her pouch to pull forth a bottle of lyrium. Uncorking it with her teeth, she tilted Cyrano's chin up with the other hand and dumped a goodly portion of the sparkling blue liquid down his throat.

He sputtered back to life, coughing and wheezing as though he'd just inhaled fire. Shakily, he got to his feet with Solona to help him as what remained of the lyrium trickled in between the cracks of the flagstone. Liquid fire...that's what that accursed stuff was. How mages drank it like wine or water, he hadn't the faintest idea. Perhaps it was an acquired taste like the bitter tea of Seheron. No. No, the closest thing had to be well-aged dwarven spirits. It was the only thing strong enough to come close.

All he knew was that he wouldn't be drinking again for a long, long time.

"You have the stink of the Fade on you," Solona said at last when she got him to a bench he could sit comfortably upon. "And not for the first time. The Commander noticed it, as did Wynne. You have no magical trinkets. Nothing but a marking on your chest."

"A scar," he replied with a dismissive weariness. "I sparred with the other assassins constantly, and anything was free game."

The mage shook her head. "It is no chance knife wound. It's a mark of Old Tevinter. What maleficar has touched you?"

"Woman, I've never seen a maleficar in my life." Maker, his head was pounding. Such a horrible throbbing he'd never known since that evening at the court of the Empress of Orlais where one particularly charming damsel... What _had_ she given him? It hadn't tasted like any wine he'd ever known. Probably would have explained why he'd awoken without his trousers and only a jester's cap to protect his modesty.

Solona's expression was as serious as a vaulted stone arch. Her hands clasped up one of Cyrano's as she sat beside him and waited for him to adequately recover. There were duties they were supposed to be about, after all, not the least of which was meeting up with the king at the Pearl to commence their investigations. After a time, she let go and reached up to unfasten a bauble from around her neck. It was a plain thing: a simple circular token of silver etched with a pair of interlocking spirals. No fine jeweler had crafted it, roughly beaten as it was. But she placed it around the bard's neck instead, her eyes shining with overwhelming concern and her mouth set in a grim line.

"That will protect you against blood magic," she said, tracing the spirals with a finger until they glowed a faint silver-blue. "I fear it won't be enough against what holds you, but it will have to do."

"My lady is too kind."

The mage smiled weakly at his attempt at sarcasm before getting to her feet. There were still things that needed to be done that didn't include feeling trapped in memories best forgotten. Gathering his wits about him, Cyrano rose as well and checked to make sure his armor and weapons were still in place. They left the castle of Denerim together, descending the slope leading downward from Fort Drakon with the hope that the worst had already come to pass for one day.


	6. A King's Ransom

They met Ser Ratham at the gates to the lower districts. He had traded his royal guard uniform for one more commonplace, looking little different than his fellows manning the gate proper. Solona merely nodded to him in greeting as she continued to walk past. Ratham opened a door in the gatehouse for her, and she stepped into the dimness beyond. Cyrano he stopped with that heavy hand blocking him by the chest. There was a single shake of his stern head, and that was all.

The answer to the unspoken question came readily enough. Solona reemerged only a few minutes later. Her robes implicating her as a member of the Circle had been discarded in favor of a dress more common, a plain thing in neutral tones with a laced bodice. The sleeves were off the shoulder in that traditional Fereldan design, but she did not compensate with a collar or scarf like so many other women. Her hair she had let down to cover her ears. It was then that Cyrano thought he understood. She looked the part of an elven household servant with himself as her guard should trouble befall them in the market. Ratham had his part of looking like he could be making his rounds or crossing from one district to another.

Even as they passed through the gate and continued on their set path, Cyrano found his mind ever wandering. The fragmented memories of Bianca that had so tormented him were shadows in favor of what his eyes were truly seeing. Without her robes and her staff traded for one of wood and used for walking, Solona looked little different from any Dalish elf in Orlais that had given up a life of wandering for one of service and stability. True, she was not so well garbed as such servants would have been, but the paleness of her throat and the slope of her shoulders were all the adornment she needed beneath that head of lustrous, dark hair. She still had the proud carriage of any court lady, and that wine glass waist over the bell of her hips was-

"You should perhaps not stare," Ser Ratham said lowly. "The success of our disguises relies on your indifference."

"I'd say you're being a trifle paranoid," came the bard's trite reply. "Where I come from, for a man to _not_ pay attention to an apparent beauty-no matter her station-is the most suspicious behavior possible. Besides, are any of our faces so well known that any of these mercenaries could point us out? 'Oh, I say, look there! There are spies from the palace come to seek our intentions and ruin us!'"

Ratham's expression never changed, though there was (perhaps, but it was so very hard to tell) a twitch of amusement. "There may be Crows among them, assassin. Sense would dictate that you, of all people, should not behave like where you come from. You look the part of a Fereldan ranger. Act like it."

"And Fereldan rangers can't appreciate Dalish beauties?"

"Not in public or broad daylight or in the presence of those who could exploit such an attraction as an obvious weakness."

Cryano scoffed but said no more. He could understand the strategic calculations that clearly occupied the guard's mind even if he could not fathom the utter neutrality that he regarded a woman's unparalleled beauty. And Solona was not the only one. When they reached the Market District, there were many young ladies about that flaunted their endowments with the full knowledge that they possessed them. Some had clearly relocated from the seedier districts to make what money could be had from the mercenaries. One, a slender, golden-haired human with the most brilliant blue eyes, was bold enough to run a finger along Ratham's stubbled jaw when the trio paused to let Solona pretend to be about her shopping. The guard kept to his own business, and the scorned woman went off in a huff, her sashay more exaggerated for her irritation.

"Are you a _stone_?" Cyrano demanded through his teeth. He followed the scorned woman with his eyes for as long as he could manage to keep his head from turning.

"She works the Pearl," was the simple reply. "I'm unashamed to be not so adventurous as some."

"I'm not talking about being adventurous. I'm talking about being alive."

"Show me an honest woman with a golden heart, and I'll show you alive."

"Very well." Cyrano braced his hands upon his belt as he surveyed the marketplace. He was only too happy to accept the challenge laid before him though he didn't know a single soul outside of their small party. He greeted a few ladies as they passed by on their own errands for nothing than to feel them out. The ones that blushed and looked away were the more promising than those that boldly met his gaze. He pointed them out to Ratham each in turn. Always, the guard refused.

"My friend, I fear you are lost." The bard threw up his hands in defeat. "For I seem to have pointed out every eligible lady in the entire lot, and yet you seem intent to scorn them all. I'm convinced that nothing beyond a Chantry sister would appeal to you, and they are quite decidedly unavailable."

A small smile broke upon Ser Ratham's face as they moved on, Solona motioning them to follow her as she desired to get closer to the looming edifice of the Gnawed Noble Tavern. It was a curious expression to come from so stoic a person, but Cyrano wasn't above the belief that the guard was incapable of feeling. Extended conversations, yes, but he definitely had emotion locked away in there somewhere.

"A lady's heart cannot be judged by a single glance alone," Cyrano went on. "If you would but give one half a breath to say 'good day', I'm sure some small bit of conversation would reveal something."

"Ladies never bother to actually speak to me," Ratham confided.

"Well, it's no wonder, since it seems such an issue for you to string more than a few words together at a time. Have you actually _tried_ to converse, or has your duty so bound you that to ignore your post for a scant two minutes is a cardinal sin?"

"Blessed are the peacekeepers."

"Aye, and-" Cyrano stopped when he caught Ser Ratham's attention divert ever so briefly back in the direction of the Chantry where a single sister maintained watch over the Chanter's board and donation box. Even from this distance, it was obvious she had a pleasant sort of countenance and honey brown hair that caught the sun's warmest rays. Mouth still agape mid-word, the bard found his eyes drawn back to his guard companion, the stern man looking as if he'd not betrayed a thing. "So it _is_ a Chantry sister."

"It is irrelevant."

"It most certainly isn't. She's not even garbed in the robes that signify she's taken her vows, if she is indeed the one you regard so highly."

"We have more urgent matters of business."

"The king helped stop a Blight. I'm sure he can manage a few mercenaries what with Bann Teagan and his entourage. We'll still be in easy sight of the Tavern should something go awry, and Solona can fill the entire square with a lightning storm should anyone think they have a chance of getting away."

"I can what?"

Solona was suddenly with them again, her arms laden with trade goods that she was struggling to get into a basket. Cyrano bent to help her at once before Ratham could stop him.

"I was just describing to our loyal guard here how the current situation is nothing to be feared. I don't even completely follow the intense fear the bann described to us earlier-at how the people were hiding themselves away. The market looks as busy as any market should."

"These are not the usual patrons," the mage woman clarified lowly, bending nearer to be more easily heard. "Nor are they all the usual merchants. Liselle still braves the crowd because she is used to far worse in Val Royeaux, and she has told me a few things that might be of use."

"Which are?"

Solona shook her head. "We shouldn't speak here. The Chantry is yet a safe place."

"Of course," Cyrano replied, straightening and elbowing Ser Ratham in the ribs as if on accident while rounding out his shoulders. "The Chantry. At once, my lady, lead on."

The air went out of him when Ratham elbowed him back. The guard marched just behind Solona and a bit off to the side, pausing now and then to address any fellow guards stationed about the perimeter. Cyrano couldn't help the smirk as he jogged to catch up, minding his position near the mage while he kept Ratham within view at the same time.

They entered the coolness of the Chantry without much fuss. Chanter Rosamund paid the same amount of attention to Ser Ratham as he did her as they passed-which was to say none, a fact that bothered Cyrano intensely. Had he misjudged? Or were the two of them so convinced of the impossibility of it all that they dared not betray the slightest hint of it? There were several stories and songs in Orlais about such things, but this was not the time to press. The privacy of the nave brought the concern out on Solona's face that she had apparently been doing her best to suppress the whole while she had been shopping.

She told them of the goings on, how the nobles were keeping to their houses and locking away their daughters and maids. No one went anywhere without heavy guard because there _had_ been the occasional murder or mugging when the mercenary band had first begun to gather some days before. They were not all from one place, but Liselle had been able to gather enough to determine that they still had a similar point of origin in the man that recruited him. None knew his name, but his identity was decidedly Antivan. Liselle said that when the mercenaries began to trickle in, Ignacio and his assistant-two merchants who had themselves been Antivan-disappeared.

"Ignacio?" Cyrano asked, his heart beginning to race just a little in his chest. "His assistant wasn't some squirrelly faced man by the name of Cesar, was it?"

Solona nodded. "And now they're both gone. It's said they packed up in haste one afternoon citing that they needed to make ship at once. Ignacio had commented that he needed a vacation. Liselle said she never knew of anyone to rush away like that if relaxation was all they needed. She said they had dropped this."

She handed Cyrano a scrap of paper that had been torn from a letter, only half of the broken wax seal still clinging to it. It was as he'd suspected. This Ignacio was the same that had contracted him into the Crows so many years ago and had ever acted a friend and confidant. He had been one to promise the inevitable revenge against Valdorio...and he had been here. _Here._ Here in Denerim in this very market and had only recently fled. But that vengeance would have to be put on hold in favor of more dire matters.

"Ignacio is a member of the Crows," Cyrano stated simply, handing the scrap of paper back to Solona. "And that's all that bit of wax proves to any that don't otherwise know him." He breathed deeply and let himself pace as he thought. The rug that ran down the central aisle was worn from so many feet treading upon it, but he could still make out the intricate patterns that had been woven into it in red and gold. The rhythm of his steps and the repetition in the heavy threads helped him to think.

There were few things that could inspire fear in Ignacio. Very few. It had been common knowledge that he had been ordered to recruit the Warden-Commander when she had first begun to prove herself to the world of rogues and others of ill repute. And it was equally common knowledge that she had been the first to firmly deny him. An honest rogue-who had ever heard of such a thing? She would steal from none that couldn't afford it, murder none that didn't deserve it, and break into nothing to actually take the contents. She merely picked the locks for practice. It had sounded ridiculous to many, but it was news like that that reminded Cyrano of the man he had once been, the accomplished bard who had been happy in the courts of Orlais before his life had been shattered and he fled to the Crows for succor.

But if it had nothing to do with the Warden-for she was not even in town to be much of a threat-it was one of two other things. Ignacio either suspected or knew of extreme opposition from another group, or someone even higher in the Crows was at work here. If it were some other organization, there would be more Crows present to offset the difference. Cyrano had seen no familiar faces or spotted a single dagger that would betray one of that affiliation. There was always a way to tell a Crow to another Crow in ways that the public would never see or understand.

That left that it was a Crow of higher standing pulling the strings, solidifying his and Solona's earlier assumption that the puppetmaster was not of Ferelden. But who was it? Names coursed through his head with the speed of summer lightning, but none he knew to be a threat to Master Ignacio in any sense. Unless the torn orders had been instructions to leave at once...or a threat of some other kind. Perhaps Ignacio's failure with the Warden was more of a blow than otherwise perceived.

A Crow leader that had recruited a small army of mismatched thugs. What sort of tactic was that? If an assassination attempt was part of the whole process, it was quite the intricate scheme that trusted far too heavily on others leaving a mess. But it was guaranteed that the others would leave a mess. It had already begun. Muggings, murders, drunken brawls...and those were the kinder things unruly mercenaries were capable of.

It still led nowhere.

Cyrano turned back to the others to find Solona looking to him expectantly. She could tell that something had sparked his interest, and that led her to hope that he had answers or at least another lead to follow. When he shook his head, her expression fell, and those shoulders drooped in such a forlorn way that he wished he could catch her up and promise that all would be fine regardless. But he couldn't. The plague upon Denerim would continue until men of sterner stuff rose up against it. That was the only way to deal with unruly mercenaries.

"Well?" Ser Ratham demanded. He was not so easily put off by one man's not knowing the answer. "We can't waste time here. Bann Teagan and the king had gone to the Pearl to start the investigation afresh. We were to meet them there once we'd gathered intelligence here. If that scrap and the words of an Orlesian merchant are all we have, we had best be off."

"We're after a Crow," Cyrano said at long last, looking the guard in the eye. "One that Ignacio would rather not mess with and one that I haven't the faintest idea who it might be. That last bit, on its own, frightens me. Only the Talons can hope for such anonymity, and that, my friend, is not the kind of person I wish to run into while being alive when I should be dead."

"You would rather hide in the Chantry?"

"No, but I insist on absolute caution. Disguises count for nothing when the one out to kill you doesn't give a damn who you are. That's the only reason I can see a Crow hiding behind mercenaries. He-or she-wants as much of a mess as possible to distract attention away from their true goal. Whatever that is I find hard to fathom. The fuss in Denerim could be keeping people's minds off Amaranthine, or Gwaren, or Highever." Cyrano shrugged helplessly. "Our findings only leave more questions."

"Then we go to the Pearl," Solona replied with a soft determination as she reached out to rest a hand on the bard's shoulder in comfort. "If nothing else, that's where this whole business started. Someone there knows something."

They moved quickly. Instead of taking the main doors out as they had come in, they exited through the rectory where Solona left their unneeded shopping for the Revered Mother's discretion. Back alleys were friendlier than the main thoroughfares as they navigated the city.

Only once did they run into an unruly band of mercenaries. The men were all drunk but lucid enough to recognize a pretty woman when they saw one and smart enough to know that their seven outnumbered Solona's three. They didn't care that Cyrano and Ratham were armed to the teeth. The moment one made a move to reach for Solona, the Antivan was at his throat, moving quickly with both swords blazing in a relentless flurry.

Ratham fended off the others with sword and shield, the two men pushing the mercenaries back for Solona to be able to prepare a spell. Cryano felt himself become invigorated, that same unnatural rush from earlier that was confirmed when he caught the greenish tinge of light surrounding his hand. Ratham came under a similar effect before the air began to crackle. Cyrano smiled grimly as he came at his opponents with renewed vigor. They were _not_ going to enjoy what came next. He could speak from extensive experience.

A lightning storm filled the narrow street. Flashes touched down to the dirt and cobblestones and caught a few of the brutes in its relentless grip. Unable to move, they screamed as extraordinary power surged through them. These were cut down easily enough, singed and already beyond hope. The others fought on. The whole lot of them danced about in the street to keep out of the way of Solona's lightning, but luck would carry them only so far. More than once, Cyrano felt the familiar sting, though it affected him far less. Ratham would grunt with surprise but carry on. He was a soldier. Fighting with a mage at his back was nothing new.

When the last fell, it was none too soon. Blood pooled upon the pavement while Cyrano reflexively checked for any useful items or coin. There were reasons why the Crows were a wealthy organization, and Antivan princes were princes of thieves. There was also a chance that a clue could be found for what they were really up against, but this particular lot provided no such luck. Common thugs with common gear and barely a few coppers between them.

A minute more had them on the move again. A half hour saw them outside of the Pearl in a part of town that should not have been as quiet as it was. The rougher sort still sat along the street with tankards of ale and loud Blight stories to share (I once slew a darkspawn- _hic_ -so big my captain thought it was a bronto!) that were more fantasy than fact. Cyrano listened out of curiosity no matter how tall the tale. This was a city that too recently had been under siege and still showed the scars of it.

The streets surrounding the Pearl were run down on the best of days, but the burnt out husks that surrounded them, now, spoke of utter devastation. A huge, roughly cut boulder still lay in a small crater in what had once been a bustling plaza, tossed there by some catapult weeks before and none yet had the strength or time to move it. A building yet serviceable had been transformed into a sort of hospital where a sign out front declared it a hospice for those suffering the blight disease. It was sealed with the sunblaze of the Chantry, and Cyrano couldn't help but wonder at his own situation. How many Wardens might be raised from a place such as this?

But there was no time to think on it long, and the Warden-Commander was not here to ask. The Pearl stood before them with its door open wide to beckon patrons to enter its confines. There didn't seem to be any takers. Not outside of the three of them. Solona ducked inside without hesitation, the two men close behind. Cyrano hadn't known what to expect from the place. He'd only ever heard of it, as it had always been beneath one of his standing to go near in his other dalliances in Denerim.

The walls were full of fresh dents and holes, finely stained dark wood covered in scratches that it didn't deserve. The carpet was stained with wine and worse, and the fire in the entryway fireplace had long been left to go out. The main room was clean enough but only because a woman was hard at work maintaining it that very moment. Her dark hair was swept back away from her face while an apron covered an otherwise fine silk dress. Dirt smudged her cheeks and betrayed tear stains long dried. The stiffness in her shoulders conveyed a level of anger that radiated, and even Ser Ratham sensed it. The lot of them maintained a polite distance while Solona dared to speak up.

"Mistress Sanga," she said with a quiet politeness, "I am Solona Caron of the Grey Wardens. We were to meet the king here."

"He was here," came the frustrated reply that sounded like she couldn't be bothered to pry her jaws apart to speak. "Here and gone. He and all the others." She stopped in her work of putting chairs up on tables to make it easier to clean the floor and looked over at them. Her eyes were sharp, almost baleful, as if she desperately wanted to blame them for all her troubles. "They left a note, if that's of any use to you, and went out the back."

Sanga dug a crumpled, folded bit of parchment from her apron and handed it to Solona. The mage opened it immediately and glanced over it quickly before passing it on directly to Cyrano with more than a little concern furrowing her brow. Ratham read over the bard's shoulder at what turned out to either be a very poor joke or highly distressing news.

"The king is not just gone, Sanga," Ratham growled as he stomped across the space to her. That he had no love for the woman was obvious, and grabbing her by the front of the apron only further solidified it. Cyrano gulped back a comment. This was neither the time nor place for sarcasm.

"He has been _taken_ ," the guard continued, spitting his displeasure directly into Sanga's perturbed face. "He came with Bann Teagan and a small group of palace guards. Was there a fight? Were they overwhelmed? You need to tell us what happened, and if he is not found alive, I am holding you personally responsible."

"Unhand me, you brute!" Sanga pushed against Ser Ratham to no avail. There was no extricating herself from that steel grip fueled by an overindulged sense of duty. "That boy can handle himself. Trust me-I've seen him fight more than one mercenary in all his visits here. But the bann...he was not here; not a guard, neither. Alistair was by himself and dressed as common as they come. He does it so often, I didn't think a thing of it."

Ser Ratham let the woman go with a small shove that pushed her into a table and knocked the stacked chairs back onto the floor with a loud clatter. Cyrano's mind wasn't on the woman's well being anymore. His focus was back on the letter in his hands, written by someone educated well enough in a tilted, even script. Overall, it said very little.

_The price of your crown, a sovereign._   
_For the life of your king, your loyalty._   
_The price of freedom is justice._   
_The water speaks the truth._

And that had to have been the most ill-conceived poem he'd ever read. It had no flair and no meter. Not to mention, that it made little sense beyond an apparent ransom for the missing monarch...which was laughable at best. A sovereign? A single gold sovereign? Even the most common of merchants could spare that without blinking on a good market day.

Cyrano looked to Solona for guidance even as she stepped about the room carefully feeling for signs that only made sense to mages. Something had her attention, something subtle as she ran her fingertips along a particular level of the wall. At one point she stopped, leaned in close to give the plaster a good sniff, then made a face.

"Blood magic," she said, turning around to level a glare at Sanga. "What have you seen? What happened here that you're not telling us?"

Sanga shrugged and went back to her cleaning in a huff. "Men came in to drink and carouse and visit with the girls as always. When the king came, I thought it no different. To be completely honest, I thought he was coming here because of the mercenaries making a mess of the Gnawed Noble."

"And what of the fight?"

"One rowdy bunch got into it with another. Alistair, being the good man he always is, thought he could step in and stop it. Words turned to blows, but it ended quickly. All it left was a mess." She gestured around her. "He seemed to recognize a few of the men he'd sided with and went along with them when all was said and done. I thought they were all going off to sort out the trouble in the Market District."

Solona walked quickly back over to Cyrano and looked over the note again. Her eyes darted back and forth over the words and up to Sanga as if trying to reconcile some conflict between the two. And there was obvious conflict. Sanga said everything had been business as usual no matter how much the mess infuriated her. The note read like a ransom...a very poor ransom, but a ransom nonetheless.

"Our king has been kidnapped," Solona put plainly. "And one of those involved in the fight was a mage. Where are the ones that lost?"

The owner of the Pearl shook her head. "Dead. Some of the locals helped me clear them out before you came."

"No mage among them?"

"Soldiers the lot of them. Northern brutes. Their leader sounded like he was from the Marches."

"But no mage," Solona pressed.

"No." Sanga stepped back a bit. Her eyes slid off to the side as she seemed to think something over. She tapped a fingernail against her teeth and did her best to ignore a glowering Ser Ratham. "But there was magic. Perhaps the winning side. There was a-yes! There was a mage among the ones the king went off with, but he looked the part of a Warden."

"Looking the part does not a Warden make," the mage replied low enough that only Cyrano heard. And what Sanga had just said did not bode well. Firstly, it was exactly one of the things he had feared might come to pass with the whole situation, that the Orlesian Wardens newly arrived to help the Commander would be blamed for any part of all this. But that wasn't possible. Solona was vehement that she was the only of their number to remain in Denerim. "We need to go."

Cyrano nodded and followed the young woman in the direction that she went, making for the back entrance that Sanga said the others had used. Ser Ratham followed in step behind them but not before one last look back at the proprietor of the Pearl.

"And off we go to ransom a crown," the bard sighed. "A crown for a sovereign. But it can't be as easy as all that. Can it?"

"They don't want money," Ser Ratham replied as they made their way back through the streets and headed to the northeast where the docks were located. "They left us a riddle. And I can only guess that the answer to it is something none of us is going to like."


	7. Bother in a Tavern

The smell of salt was thick the closer they got to the docks. It was still a part of the city seemingly untouched by the mercenary occupation...but that could have easily been simply because the workers and residents were used to various unsavories traipsing through their territory. The citizens of the docks were the epitome of what it meant to be Fereldan: hard, resilient, and passionate about their identity. Mabari ran through the district with no handlers. Children chased after them with squeals of delight. Warhounds. Children were playing with warhounds like it were the most natural thing. And so it was. The mothers didn't even seem to be concerned that their offspring were running about with creatures bigger than them that could rip limbs off without the slightest bit of effort. Cyrano shifted closer to Solona when the beasts approached. He might not be wearing Antivan leather, but he wasn't so willing to take the chance.

Dozens of ships sat at anchor from all over known Thedas. With the Blight gone, most would think that trade was picking up again. The reality was more that these ships belonged to would-be scavengers, merchants who might be reputable enough but not so honest to be above taking advantage of the situation. Rivaini, Nevarran, Antivan...more than a few left the bard uneasy. He was no seafaring man. He couldn't tell the difference between a frigate and a sloop if you paid him for it, but he knew the various banners. He knew to identify Raiders and the Armada and know a ship made in one nation but refitted in another. No Raiders. No Armada. From that, the citizens of Denerim were safe for now.

"Shouldn't we be looking for Bann Teagan?" Solona asked almost testily as she hid behind Cyrano to avoid her own run-in with a mabari. "He was supposed to have been with Alistair."

"There's no time," Ser Ratham replied, pausing to look about their particular surroundings when they came to a large promenade before a warehouse. "The ransom threatened the king's life."

"The ransom declared he was worth only a _sovereign_ ," Cyrano put bluntly. "That doesn't exactly declare urgency to me. Or anything resembling a serious threat. No. The riddle goes deeper...but it's so nonsensical, I can't make heads or tails of it."

"Hence why we're starting at the end. 'The water speaks the truth.' This is the most obvious answer."

"True, but not the only one." Solona stepped over to the water's edge and peered in. The bard looked over her shoulder at the murky green of low tide. It smelled of sewage and worse things. "The Drakon River flows here all the way from Lake Calenhad. The poorest districts follow its southern shore-including the Alienage. Wells and sewers are everywhere, and that says nothing of the fonts in every Chantry. Ser Ratham, I respect your wisdom, but there is water _everywhere_ in Denerim."

Cyrano had backed up a pace or two, especially as the mage's words became more heated and earnest. She was correct in her assertions. One couldn't spit in Denerim without hitting one water source or another, and it was one of the most fortunate cities in that its supply retained a rare level of purity. The sewage was directed to the ocean rather than the river. The wells were frequently blessed by the Chantry, though some would argue that had little bearing on anything. That the waters of the Drakon River came from the most magically imbued lake in the entire region is what mostly contributed. However, the ultimate properties were a mystery even to the mages that made Lake Calenhad their home. He didn't like it. The clue was too open-ended, which made a piss poor riddle all the worse.

"I need a drink," he muttered to no one in particular, not even interested if anyone heard him and followed. He could hear music and laughter. There was a pub around here somewhere.

It wasn't hard to find. A carved and painted wooden sign in the shape of a great horse with a seated female warrior hung out over the street. The woman had a mass of red hair that looked to be blowing in the wind with a sword raised high above her head. If that wasn't the legendary Rebel Queen, Cyrano was a lyrium-addled dwarf. Music assaulted him as he stepped through the doorway. Musicians played varying instruments or Orlesian origin but Fereldan design. The lute had a fuller, less nasal sound. The flute was high-pitched and trilling, and the harp had limited range but a decent resonance. Something kept the tempo. The bard squinted through the smoke and throng to catch sight of a man tapping away at a stretched bit of skin with a thick wooden rod. Primitive but effective nonetheless.

Now and again, the musicians added voice to the song, but the dialect was so thick, Cyrano could hardly understand a word. Was it some ancient Clayne saga that someone had tried to turn into a ballad? Cyrano knew his fair share of traditional Fereldan tunes from his years of wandering, but the Clayne residual culture was never something that appealed much to him. He ordered a glass of the finest wine available to hopefully deal with the torture all the better. Mountain pipes were brought in for an upbeat jig that had the locals dancing about like Chasind wildlings.

 _Cultureless heathens_.

But that wasn't really true. He knew this. There were many stories and songs he'd gathered from Ferelden that were each charming and valuable in their different ways. They were even appreciated in Orlais and further north in the Anderfels. Nevarra enjoyed the performances heavy in audience participation (if the minstrel could bear the sight of blood when battles were re-enacted), and Antivans found a wealth of amusement in how they were portrayed as bands of wandering thieves in anything telling of the Orlesian occupation. For once, they were less villainous to their southern neighbors than the opulent empire of fops and philanderers.

It was his third glass of wine (and served by such a lovely barkeep...such a pretty, redheaded maid) that emboldened him to insist on changing up the repertoire. The lutist had bowed out for a bit of a break, and Cyrano saw it as the perfect time to seize the opportunity for two things: firstly, it meant a return to sanity after hearing so many drinking songs that merely counted down the bottles of ale; secondly, it had been months since he'd last been able to play in public. How that lute called to him with its golden wood and ironbark inlay. He introduced himself to the musicians and bought them each a round. His identity was partially a lie, but he refused to deny how well-travelled he was or that he had spent most of his life abroad despite his Fereldan alias of Dickon Weye.

The lutist returned after a few minutes only-apparently only having escaped to relieve himself after so much drink-but he was more than pleased to meet another of the art. He insisted that Cyrano have a turn at the instrument and promised that, if the bard could get the entire audience involved in whatever he performed, a bottle of the tavern's very finest import would be his.

Cyrano heartily accepted the challenge. The instrument was sleek and fitted so well into his hands. Only once had he touched something so divine...and that had been his wife. And for that, only the best of what he knew that was local would do. Bianca had been fond of only one Fereldan piece for its melody and humor, but it had been so popular that even the Orlesian court had invented an intricate dance to go along with it. Perhaps placating the woman's spirit would likewise ease his increasingly troubled soul.

He tested out a few chords and adjusted the tuning where necessary. The others picked up on what he was about to play almost immediately, broad smiles betraying their enthusiasm as they each dove in one at a time in a layered round.

_In the neat little town of Highever,_   
_Sent to serve the Teyrn, I was bound._   
_Many an hour's sweet happiness_   
_Have I spent in that neat little town._

The entire pub grew silent. Not only was this a new voice than had previously been heard, smoother and still more masculine, but it was probably the first song played all day that had nothing to do with darkspawn, the Rebel Queen, or beer. Those standing took their seats. Any that couldn't find a chair or bench leaned against the walls or bar.

_But a sad misfortune came over me,_   
_Which caused me to flee by the tide,_   
_Far away from my dearest Ferelden,_   
_Betrayed by the Mabari Bride._

_Her eyes, they shone like silver._   
_I thought her the Empress Orlais._   
_And behind her there pranced a mabari_   
_Always willing, so willing, to play._

A whoop rose up from one of the nearer tables as the music picked up and the minstrels joined in force. The tempo increased just a little as the drum-a thing called a borran, apparently-tapped out a pleasant rhythm Cyrano was only too glad to keep up with. It should not have amazed him as much as it did the number of people that knew the words.

_I took a stroll to the market_   
_For bread then to be on my way,_   
_When I chanced upon this pretty, fair lass_   
_Come a-traipsing along the highway._

_She was of passing fine beauty,_   
_Her waist it curved just like a glass._   
_Fine wine was never so bodied_   
_As was this sweet, raven-haired lass._

_Her eyes, they shone like silver._   
_I thought her the Empress Orlais._   
_And behind her there pranced a mabari_   
_Always willing, so willing, to play._

Any ladies present had risen by this point to act out the part of the Mabari Bride-those that knew the motions, at least. Some kept themselves limited to the Fereldan version while others were unashamed to show they knew the Orlesian way of things. Regardless, it soon had the men getting involved, more animated the deeper into their cups they were, and Cyrano couldn't help the grin at how easily he'd earned himself an import. He didn't even care what it was. It could be the swill those of the Anderfels favored so highly. It was worth every note he had the chance to play and every word he got to sing.

It was also at this juncture that Solona and Ser Ratham finally appeared. The guard appeared as impassive as ever, but the woman had that familiar scowl on her face, that look that conveyed nothing but her utmost annoyance and displeasure at being inconvenienced. Oh, how it made her eyes sparkle. Cyrano's smile only grew.

_How I fell in love with this pretty, fair maid,_   
_Her gaze had completely entranced me._   
_Thus I failed to see the tricks that she played_   
_On folk with her demon mabari._

_A man she had preyed on for sovereigns_  
 _And slipped the coin for me to hide._  
 _And the very first thing that I said was,_  
" _My dearest Mabari Bride!"_

_Her eyes, they shone like silver._   
_I thought her the Empress Orlais._   
_And behind her there pranced a mabari_   
_Always willing, so willing, to play._

Solona still stared him down but it was far less vehemently than when she first entered. Ratham had apparently found some use in the situation, making his way about the room in an attempt to spot anyone that didn't otherwise belong there. Crows, one would imagine. To say that anyone had no place in a pub was laughable, but there were limits to Fereldan expectations after so many years of occupation and exploitation at the hands of Blight and Orlais.

The bard fell into an instrumental interlude to buy his companions time to see if anything could be found. A pub was not exactly where water was a common association, but it was along the dock and had the deepest association to the king with his grandmother blazoned on every signpost and wall placard. When Ser Ratham returned to Solona's side with a subtle shake of the head, Cyrano progressed to the ending of his performance.

_A lifetime of service, my punishment,_   
_Conscripted Grey Warden was I._   
_Far away from my dearest Ferelden,_   
_Betrayed by the Mabari Bride._

_Her eyes, they shone like silver._   
_I thought her the Empress Orlais._   
_And behind her there pranced a mabari_   
_Always willing, so willing, to play._

The crowd erupted into a repeat of the chorus and then once more. Tankards were held aloft as a young girl hopped up onto the musicians' platform to lead them all in a final round of the motions. The minstrels took the opportunity to segue directly into something else...something that Cyrano didn't have the faintest idea what it was. It repeated readily enough, and the chords were simple. He played just a basic accompaniment until he was more used to the pattern at which point he took the opportunity to move about the crowd himself. Appreciative patrons dropped coins into his belt pouch, and women tied ribbons and other favors to the swords at his back. Several of the latter tried to pull him into a dance and cared little that a lute made such things difficult. The actual lutist took his instrument back with a laugh and encouraging smile and bumped Cyrano into the arms of a waiting young lady of ginger hair and pale skin for a feverish jig.

Solona stole him quickly in an attempt to drag him out of the crowd and back to the task at hand. But the bodies thronged too close, and there was no rebelling against them. Cyrano still had his bet to consider. He was promised a bottle of the highest quality, and he would stay until he had it.

"We are wasting valuable time," the mage hissed as she urged him toward a break in the throng. "Ratham thinks the names of the ships might hold the answer."

Cyrano shook his head while accepting a glass the barkeep handed him in gratitude. He drained it in one go. "Nonsense. The clue was, 'The water speaks the truth.' Not that it 'holds the truth' or 'carries the truth'. Although, given the rubbish of all the rest of it, I wouldn't be surprised that it was written by someone who had little to no skill with the King's Tongue."

His head buzzed with the effects of the drink and elation at getting to perform for the first time in so long. It left him appreciating even the smallest of things...the detail in Solona's blood writing, the veining in the cup of horn he held in his hand. It was sadly drained of its contents save for a single drop of the deep red glory that could not have come from any Fereldan vintner. Did Ferelden even make its own wine? Or did they keep to mead and ale and other such barbaric beverages? He found he couldn't recall.

"A promise is a promise!" a voice came up behind him. It was the lutist, and in his hand he held out a bottle containing a blue liquid that almost radiated its own light. Perhaps it did, at that. Cyrano took the proffered drink and squinted into its depths, fascinated as the blue light swirled about with something of a darker hue. "Aqua Magus-fresh from the Tevinter Imperium this morning. Your skill, ser, is like magic. I thought this only appropriate."

"The pleasure was all mine. Come! Join us for a drink!"

The man was only too eager to oblige as he took a seat at a table for Cyrano to join him. Solona sat grudgingly when beckoned, but Ser Ratham had no interest in wasting any more time. He left the tavern to begin his quest to learn every ship name at harbor.

Aqua Magus is not a drink for the faint of heart. Perfected by the magisters of Tevinter, it is some of their finest and best-aged wine combined with a hint of lyrium. And sometimes more than a hint. It was well known that only a mage could finish off a bottle alone, but even that was tempting fate. With that in mind, Cyrano offered Solona a glass that she eyed up with a certain level of suspicion before accepting it.

"The Tevene say there is truth in wine," she said before taking a small sip. "Maybe we'll hear a helpful rumor before we lose the light."

Cyrano was already experiencing the lyrium burn at the back of his throat before he gave the slightest thought to what his companion had said. His first realization was that he had very recently promised himself not to touch lyrium ever, ever again. So much for that. He had to admit that the lyrium enhanced the flavor of the wine itself. Was it strictly wine? That was hard to gauge itself. There was an almost mead-ish aftertaste, that hint of finest fermented honey. The Imperium was an historical horror, but it did have its finer contributions that could be appreciated all over Thedas.

Truth in wine. And this was Aqua Magus...Mage's Water. The bard's sharp eyes shot over to the lutist, the man taking a healthy swig of the stuff while he toasted some of the revelers.

"I'm sure that even the Divine, herself, must appreciate a drink like this," Cyrano commented. "It's fit for a king, at the very least!"

"Aye, and our own Alistair is quite fond! He's here at least once a week, and he can drink the court mage under the table when it comes to this. I hear he has some Templar training under his belt-explains the tolerance."

Solona held out her glass for more, suddenly realizing the opportunity that had presented itself. "And has the king been through here lately?"

The lutist looked to ponder this over as he poured, his fair brow creasing as he put his mind to far more use than it was prepared for in that moment. Eventually, he shook his head. "I can't say that I've seen him. He always requests that we sing the Ballad of the Warden. If, for some reason he hasn't been in the mood for that, everyone here knows his face. He could come through here looking the part of a poor tinker, and he would still be swarmed by his adoring public."

Cyrano sighed heavily before draining his second glass. The drink was going straight to his head and addled his vision just enough to make him feel like he'd been drinking all day. If it was supposed to offer some level of clarity, it wasn't happening. If it was supposed to make him care less about what he said aloud-just like any other wine-that was certainly threatening.

"Though, you're not the first Wardens to ask about him today," the musician went on. At the shocked expressions from both Cyrano and Solona, he pointed blithely to the bard's griffon sword. "I'm drunk but not blind." He leaned in closer. "No worries to be had here, mates. Bella-our lovely barkeep-is a close, personal friend of the Warden-Commander. And if I want to keep my hide and my job, I'll keep your secret safe, believe you me. I'm Rowan."

He held out his hand for Cyrano to shake. There apparently wasn't much secret if the sword were so easily recognized, the one flaw in his disguise, but he was trusting in Rowan's promise. Cyrano grasped the lutist's palm and poured them all another drink, a gesture of good faith. What else could he do? Even Solona was aware the recognition left them in a precarious position, moreso if they denied it. They were forced to ride it out.

"Who are these other Wardens?" Cryano asked conversationally. He struggled to keep himself sharp. Ironically, the lyrium helped. So did Solona's heel digging into his instep. "We've been trying to find our companion all day with ill luck, and he said _he_ was off to find the king to offer his services at Amaranthine. His name is Ganen...can't miss him. He's missing an eye where a genlock bit him in the face."

The heel ground in deeper. _Oh, for the Maker's sake, let me work, woman!_ He shot her a glance to convey as much and was greeted by the most innocent expression he had ever seen in his life. A baby would have looked more suspicious. Her eyes lowered, then. Her brow creased ever so slightly when she saw what remained in his glass...which was nearly nothing. But the look wasn't one that pitied the lack of drink. He didn't need the blue haze across his vision to tell him why. Even split three ways, Aqua Magus was dangerous to those not magically trained, and not for its potent alcoholic effects. Cyrano pushed his glass away.

"So, you wouldn't have seen him, maybe?" he asked when the pressure was removed from his foot. "With the king, perhaps. That's the only thing we have to go on, and those up at the palace were vehement that the king was out."

"Not a one-eyed gentleman, no," Rowan replied with significantly less control over his tongue than a self-respecting bard should ever have ( _lutist_ , not bard...there was ever a difference). "They were armored men from up north-clean and proud of bearing. One sounded like he came from the Marches, brogue so thick it could have put a dwarf's beard to shame. He was the only one who spoke. The other two were dark and didn't at all seem comfortable. Black hair, black eyes...might have been Rivaini or Antivan."

"Did they give their names? We came with no Antivan, nor did we expect one." Cyrano made a show of giving Solona a puzzled expression. Even if Aqua Magus was not the _particular_ truth-speaking water of the riddle, he would follow the smell of Antivan leather like a hungry mabari.

Rowan shrugged. "Not even the Marcher introduced himself. He let his griffon armor do the talking. Said they _came_ from Amaranthine." His mouth twisted in befuddlement. "I heard a rumor all those Wardens were dead. It's why the Commander went back."

"Do you know where they went afterward? My friend, anything you have to contribute could be of the utmost importance. There are imposters within the Grey, and we _must_ find them."

"And how would I know you're not an imposter, then?" Rowan asked with a wary eye, sharp despite his inebriated state. "Your sword could be stolen. It's not like before where admitting to being a Grey Warden risked you the ire of Loghain and his supporters."

The bard scowled. Here was a different sort of hurdle that he couldn't say he'd expected. Most men while drunk believed whatever one told them. Others, were like sharp-witted Rowan...sharper and more witted the more Aqua Magus was in him. How to prove Cyrano and Solona were Wardens? There was nothing physically distinguishable between one of that order and any other person, no real sign of the taint, no brand upon the skin or tattoos of camaraderie. All he had was a story and a set of scars with only the mage to back his claim.

He reached down to the lacings at his left side. If it was proof he needed, he'd have to take the chance and suck up his pride. _I was bitten by a spider, you see_ , he would have to say. _It was yea big and was blighted to boot_. _I very nearly died! Just ask anyone._

But he never got that chance.

There was a loud clamor at the entrance as a fully armored man came plowing through, shoving his way toward the back of the tavern like death itself were chasing him. His black hair was a mess and dusky skin darker from the grime and blood that caked it. His armor of scales was of a bright silver with blue enamel striping the breastplate. And Ser Ratham was in hot pursuit of him.

"Don't just _sit there_ ," the guard bellowed, bounding over a table to not lose his quarry. "We are as hounds after a Crow!"


	8. Familiar Faces in All the Wrong Places

Cyrano tumbled from his seat to make chase. He felt his blood quicken, a new sense of vigor clearing his clouded mind. Solona's new spell was also a recipe for sobriety. At least for now. Lightning arced through the air but managed nothing other than scorching the back wall. Burnt wood and ozone joined the lingering odors of ale and sweat, and frightened patrons crushed into each other in an effort to flee. Magic, they cried. Apostate! Maleficar! The Wardens hadn't the time to fret over such alarms as they watched the false one scurry through a door in the rear.

They quickly followed, Ratham taking the lead with Cyrano falling back to protect Solona from any zealots that might try something stupid. The space beyond the taproom was storage for dozens of wooden kegs and hundreds of bottles. It was close, forcing them into single file, and their foe continually tried to delay them by throwing objects into their path. Solona nearly had him with a bolt of her finest conjuration, but he managed to dodge it by slamming the far door shut just in time.

When the companions reached the next room, they found the man sprawled face-down on the stone floor. Bella stood over him, a massive wooden brewer's paddle braced against her shoulder.

"And what has this Warden done to deserve your ire, Captain?" she asked, her voice stern and sweet all at once.

"He is no Warden," Cyrano and Ratham replied in unison. Solona had already knelt to examine wounds. It was Ser Ratham that continued.

"I found him standing guard by an Antivan merchantman. The ship showed no markings of the order-but see the back of his neck."

The mage did as she was told, moving ebony hair aside to expose an intricate tattoo in ink the color of blood. It was a thing of thin, flowing lines, swirling about an inner symbol that could have been the coat of arms of some house. She showed it to Cyrano, and his breath caught when he saw.

"He serves Rialto!" he exclaimed, though he could barely force his voice above a whisper. The level of horror he felt in this realization he couldn't even quite comprehend to himself. There was little beyond the acknowledgement that the Princes of the major Antivan cities were the Talons for the Crows. And a Talon in Denerim had been something that he'd truly hoped would not be part of this puzzling equation. At least it was Rialto and not Antiva City. He who held sway over an entire nation of cutthroats and slavers was not likely to be easily caught off his guard.

Ratham's eyes narrowed gravely at the unconscious man upon the floor. "It has been a decade since I last saw that crest, but there is no mistaking it. The seal of the Prince of Rialto...a swan never looked so vicious."

Solona glanced up at the two of them, the face turned over her shoulder more than a little perplexed. "This prince is a particularly cruel man?" she asked as she began to work that lone healing spell she knew.

"He is the Prince of Antiva's left hand," Cyrano explained, his own eyes unable to pull away from the tattooed crest burned upon bronzed skin. "He keeps watch on Rialto Bay. It is upon his approval that merchants even get near the main ports, and it is more than just a rumor that the Armada answers directly to him. If the Prince of Antiva controls the assassins on land, the Prince of Rialto commands all the brigands of the sea."

"What could he possibly want with our king, then? The Fereldan navy is no threat."

" _What_ Fereldan navy?" Ser Ratham griped. "It's impossible that Antiva would concern itself with something so ridiculous."

Bella politely cleared her throat to get their attention. Cyrano had almost entirely forgotten about her...tragic, really, for she was quite the striking woman poised as she was with the paddle against her bare shoulder and her other fist resting on her girdled hip. If Rowan had been implying what the Antivan was thinking he had, he was one very lucky, half-talented lutist.

"Perhaps it all has to do with the Commander," she suggested. "Alistair is a complete sot without her. That much was obvious when I first saw them in Redcliffe-and the rampant rumors since just confirm how poorly they hide it. Kallian angered the Crows in a good many ways not long ago." She turned her attention to the still unconscious man on the floor. "It was only a matter of time. Between what you just said and the way he's dressed, I'd bet my whole brewery on it."

 _Clever wench, isn't she_? Cyrano bit his tongue to not say it aloud. He had dismissed the theory earlier based entirely on what they knew of Ignacio's actions in the market. But the mark of Rialto changed everything. _This_ was the more powerful force that drove a shamed Crow into hiding. _This_ was the sort of villain who would kidnap a king to draw out his lady love in the name of the Grey Wardens...all for the sheer thrill of it. At least there had to be some sort of dastardly joy the Prince must be getting from all this.

The real question was: did the Warden-Commander even _know_? For all anyone knew, she was down a darkspawn hole somewhere in Amaranthine and hadn't the faintest idea of the goings on in Denerim. Of what use was that to their villain? To perform a deed of such magnitude _required_ the ultimate target to be aware if any effect was to be had. Wardens could spend months in the Deep Roads if the situation called for it. That was a long time for a monarch to be missing, and the Prince of Rialto had to have conceived of this.

So, with that now needing to be taken into consideration, how did it affect everything else?

Cyrano began to pace again as he thought, knuckles clenched beneath his nose with the elbow resting on an arm that pressed against his ribs. He was as hunched into himself as a standing figure could be. His feet tread a straight line along the row of massive kegs, and he subconsciously counted the number of sunbeams he stepped through. Back and forth he went, from one end of the brewery to the other. Ratham was the only one to pay any attention to his movements, the guard's eyes shadowed by lowered brows that were their own share of curious and thoughtful.

 _For your crown, a sovereign_.

That had seemed simple enough. A ransom at its simplest. But did the Prince of Rialto also have direct ties to the Antivan royal family? A sovereign was Fereldan coinage, true enough. But it also was a ruler in its primary sense. The riddle now had to be completely rethought. Every line of it was weightier than before. However, that made it ring no less of nonsense.

_For the life of your king, your loyalty._

Had it been meant for Kallian to find? Was there some aspect to it all that only she would understand? She loved Alistair. She had been all over the bloody countryside fighting Blight and civil war both and gave him the throne at the end of it. But if it were she that was the primary target of all this, would the riddle not make _references_ to such a love? There was too much that was impersonal here.

 _The price of freedom is justice_.

"Justice" to a Crow was a very loose term. They very often didn't seek it, it had so ambiguous a meaning to them. A woman that stole an assassin-a moderately competent one, at that-and turned down recruitment had not exactly slapped a man across the face and spit in his wine. It was disappointing, but nothing that called for wrathful vengeance. Was this only a game, then? Were the Crows merely trying to toy with her to coax her over? That was a possibility. Antivans don't exactly listen when a lady says no. Ever.

 _The water speaks the truth_.

 _Maldicion_ , _what water_? They had started at the end, thinking they knew the answer to that one. Oceans, rivers, lakes, Chantry wells... Water was everywhere. Wine had gotten them no closer. Where was it that Ratham had found the false Warden? By a merchantman?

"Ser Ratham," Cyrano spoke up when he returned to the group, "did you get the name of the ship this oaf was near?"

" _La Veridad._ "

The Antivan practically stopped breathing, he was stunned with disbelief. _No. No, it can't really be that easy_. The Truth. What captain in his right mind names a ship something so inane as that?

"This is your moment to gloat," Cyrano commented when it appeared as though Ratham had no idea what he'd just revealed. "It had been your idea to seek out a ship's name. You did." He kicked the false Warden in the ribs. "You found this."

"Yes...so what do the ship, the blaggard here, and the Prince of Rialto have to do with the rest of it? You're the Crow."

"I can't answer that until we're aboard _La Veridad_." The Antivan reached down and hauled their prisoner up by the neck hole of his armor with Ratham bending to assist once he caught on. The lot of them moved back in the direction they had come.

The mage brought up the rear with a decidedly sour look upon her face. "That's your cunning plan, is it?"

For the first time in what felt like an Age, Cyrano laughed. He shrugged the limp man into a better position with one arm across both his shoulders and put as much bounce in his step as he could manage.

"I do try, my dear," he quipped as they exited a side door Bella showed them and moved into the street. "Master Cyrano Rideri, King of Bards and Bard of Kings. Cunning plans happen to be one of my specialties."

"Boarding a ship that's not yours in broad daylight with an unconscious Warden?"

The prisoner let out a bit of a groan. It was soft at first, but his boot catching on a cobblestone seemed to bring him further around.

"He's had too much to drink. We're seeing him back to his companions."

"And this ship we're going to might have other such souls aboard, their numbers unknown?"

"My darling Solona...that is why we have you."

 _La Veridad_ was not difficult to find. Antivan merchantmen tended to stick out in a crowd, especially when those docked around them were Fereldan fishing boats that couldn't sail the high seas on a prayer. Its golden wood was carved with grand scrollwork all along the railings through the curving sweep of the prow. Its figurehead was a swooning interpretation of a lovelorn Andraste...though whether she was pining for her silent Maker was questionable. White sails were furled neatly atop tall, straight masts with an intricate weaving of rigging binding it all together.

The gangplank was down as if there were no concern for people just wandering aboard. The trio moved with care, listening for any movement, looking about for any sailors or guards. When they found the upper decks completely vacant, Solona brought her staff to be more at the ready. It smelled like a trap. That much was obvious. Only a complete fool would find such a situation a relief. The two men left the mage to guard their prisoner as they peered into cabins and searched lower decks. Nothing. They were the only things alive in that cradle of wood upon the water.

The main cabin held the most interest. It was lavishly decorated with silken drapes and tapestries. The walls were of a honey-stained wood trimmed in glowing mahogany. The bunk of a bed was fixed up well enough to suit a noble, and Ratham became keenly interested in a portrait nailed to the wall that might have given some clue as to the occupant. Cyrano abandoned his perusal of the liquor cabinet when he heard his companion's thoughtful hum.

"And what do you make of this fellow?" Ratham asked as his fingers lightly traced the gilded frame.

The young gentleman in the portrait was wearing the attire of an Antivan noble that might have been fashionable a decade or two before. His hat was high with a broad, feathered brim. His face was angled and severe, a long and sharp beard spilling from jaw and chin with moustaches to match. Even captured in paint, his eyes were piercing and cold, and his bearing was almost excessively proud. His clothes looked to be velvet and cloth-of-gold. His shoes sported fancy buckles encrusted with precious stones. About his neck was a heavy chain that terminated in a large golden medallion.

"The sovereign!" Cyrano breathed, scarcely able to hold in his shock and excitement. "That must be it! The riddle doesn't refer to a coin as _Fereldans_ know it or to any particular monarch or station. It means that- _that_ right there!" He pointed emphatically to the medallion. "An Antivan Sovereign! Oh, how I've been blind. 'For your crown, a sovereign.' Antivan Princes wear no crowns. They wear _those_. It dates back several Ages when the Guild of Merchants thought they could aspire to far greater things." The bard grew perplexed. "Do we have a Prince captive that I am unaware of? This is beginning to sound like a prisoner exchange."

Ser Ratham shook his head. "I was merely hoping you could identify the one in the portrait. Save for a few cosmetic differences, he looks very familiar."

The guard gestured over to a looking glass attached to one of the side walls. It was a small thing and heavily tarnished, but Cyrano caught his countenance within its wooden confines along with the tall Fereldan at his shoulder.

"What?" the bard responded, incredulous. "We are both swarthy. We are both Antivan. That's like me telling you that you look like any other Fereldan for your pale skin and bad taste in everything."

"Then you are more blind than you think. Who is this man that he looks so much like you?"

Cyrano did not like the implications. For a man suddenly rediscovering memories long denied him, he was not one keen on thinking that he had also been someone completely different than he thought he was. It was with the most absolute honesty that he could say he thoroughly enjoyed his current position in life, his long experience as a well-traveled bard, and even how his talents as a swordsman had been honed by the Crows. He was content thinking Bianca had loved him for who he was now rather than who he might have once been.

It was with some trepidation that he glanced at the painting again. The artist had been a fine one, able to capture an immense level of detail upon a canvas of such a modest size. But that youthful face could have aged in any number of ways since it had thus been captured. There was not so much detail as to be unmistakable, and Cyrano could not say with any certainty that he saw anything of himself in that cold, amber stare.

"He could be anyone. Given the age of this portrait, the royal house has changed twice, and the merchant princes murdered and swapped territories at least a dozen times with new ones creeping up from nothing in the resulting vacuum. Do you know how many bastards those Princes spawn with the whores that nearly outnumber the Crows? You could populate a small nation."

The words spilled forth rapidly. A dismissive wave of the hand attempted to add to an irritated tone as Cyrano endeavored to fix his attention upon absolutely anything else. There was such a wealth of things in this room with which to accomplish that.

Ratham shook his head with a sigh. From his belt, he pulled out a small knife that he then used to cut the painting free of its frame. "Do you not see that this is our clue? Perhaps you're right in thinking that this sovereign is _the_ sovereign, but would this man not give some identity to the one who has taken the king? He has brought his men here, paraded them as Wardens, and-"

" _He_ has not."

"What?"

Cyrano had returned to his searching and picked the lock on a squat trunk. Inside, neatly folded with long and lacy sleeves folded over each other, were a half-dozen lady's dresses. He held one up to his shoulders and spun with a flourish to face Ser Ratham.

"That is, unless he is of the sort that enjoys wearing something so decidedly feminine."

The look on Ser Ratham's face could not possibly convey any more disgust than it was. "I truly hope, ser, that I would be wrong in thinking that there are men in Antiva with such..." He couldn't even finish.

Cyrano shrugged nonchalantly and tossed the dress back into the trunk. "Yes, but it's not nearly so rampant as Orlais. The number of men fond of wearing corsets probably outnumbers the women."

The expression could, indeed, be more disgusted still. The guard muttered something about how they were wasting time, carefully rolled the portrait up, and tucked it into his armor as he strode back onto the deck.

Solona still guarded the prisoner in his prone position on the weathered wood. He looked more to be sleeping than actually unconscious, but either state had become an inconvenience. They needed him awake. Cyrano had kept his attention fixed on Ratham after his insistence regarding the portrait. Tongues of violet flame licked at the edges of his vision that he had been trying to fight off. A haunting woman's laugh tugged at him from somewhere beyond, and it was all he could do to keep his anger stronger than his longing.

_Why have you forgotten me?_

He stopped short and clamped his hands to his head, squeezing his eyes shut like it could block everything out. There was a keening, a long bell-like tone that grew louder and louder the more he struggled against it. His chest grew tight. His breathing very nearly stopped. How his head pounded!

_Why...have you...forgotten me?_

It was louder, now, and all the more insistent. Bianca's voice, angry and grating where he could only ever remember it being sweet and smooth. Images flashed across the insides of his eyelids as his knees made heavy contact with the deck.

He was aware of nothing else. Nothing beyond the phantoms playing in the fire. Every now and again, the images slowed to where he could properly see...Bianca on his arm, beaming up at him from amidst the frills of the finest ball gown he could buy her. The Antivan elite that filled a vaulted hall in so many styles and combinations of color that he thought he might go blind in the best of ways. Music played for a dance, and all the company moved to find their partners. As they spun, the scene changed. It was the same hall, but a more intimate group. A small handful of men and women stood with him about a large table. A map was spread upon it with colored flags marking major trade centers. He was angry. He could feel it. Whatever direction it was aimed in, he couldn't tell, but it drove him to lash out and sweep away every single flag. There was suddenly a gentle pressure on his arm that was meant to comfort him, but he couldn't see who it was. When he turned, there was nothing.

He kept turning. Everything about him darkened before erupting back into flame. In the middle of it all, Bianca stood, her face smiling and happy, her fingers beckoning...but her body was ruined. Blood drenched her gown and was smeared across her face. Her hair was clotted and piled messily atop her head. In one hand, she held their dead baby by a single, tiny arm. He felt himself screaming though he heard no sound beyond that sweet voice.

_Come to me..._

_Beloved._

An electric jolt coursed through him and drove away the fire. Air rushed into his lungs just before Cyrano found himself heaving what drink still remained in his stomach until there was naught but bile left to burn his throat. Solona knelt beside him with her arms about his shoulders. She held him upright to let him breathe easier, and healing magic flowed from her hands and into his body. She was whispering something under her breath-an incantation of some sort, for he didn't recognize the words-and it slowly cleared away the waking nightmare.

He welcomed her embrace, a shaking, clammy hand grasping at her arm to weakly hold her in return. The vertigo was overwhelming between the apparent blood magic curse that entrapped him and whatever Solona would do to break him of it. There was an odd odor clinging to him outside of the now-familiar ozone and singed hair. It was sharp and metallic like a blade that had been soaked in vinegar. Was this that 'stink of the Fade' the mage had mentioned earlier?

"What did you see?" Solona asked quietly.

"I...I really don't know. Not just Bianca. There were others." He shook his head, trying to remember yet endeavoring to not recall too much...like the blood and flames. A groan escaped his lips as he dealt with a risidual wave of pain that throbbed within his skull. It was a groan echoed from not far off.

Cyrano's eyes flew open and came into sharp focus upon the false Warden who was finally coming around and trying to lift himself at least to his elbows. A hiss heralded Ser Ratham drawing his sword to aim at the prisoner's throat. Solona stiffened. Her arms fell away from the bard to grab up her staff.

The Antivan was not so keen to go on the defensive. Not after the day he'd had thus far. He'd been led on a wild goose chase around a city he barely knew and was struck down twice by some hellish fiend from the Fade. His nerves were raw from the images he'd seen, both benign and horrific, and all he wanted in that moment was a single answer.

He shot forward with a burst of energy sparked more by frustration and rage than necessity or sense. He landed hard on the prisoner, his hands throttling the other man's neck with enough force to be threatening but not deadly. The man was still too weak to fight back, his blue eyes bulging in alarm beneath that sun-bronzed brow and shock of dark hair. Hands tugged feebly at the wrists of his attacker, but Cyrano would not relent.

"Where is he, you worthless _cazzo_?" the bard spat between clenched teeth. He thought he heard Solona cry out in protest, but it was little more than white noise amidst all the rest. "We followed your nonsense and found your supposed 'truth'. _Where is the king_?"


	9. Innocent of Being Guilty of Being Grey Wardens

Cyrano was doomed not to get his answer. Not right then, anyway.

Heavy footfalls on the gangplank signaled the arrival of at least a half-dozen heavily armed men. The steps became hurried and rumbled like thunder once the first head crested the deck, and a barked voice warned the others. Solona moved quickly to put herself between the newcomers and the inattentive bard, but it wasn't enough. She shrieked as she was forced aside in the middle of casting a spell and landed hard on her shoulder upon the deck.

Ser Ratham engaged those he could quickly, his sword and shield blazing blinding patterns in the sunlight. Only at this clashing did Cyrano snap to and hazard a look. They were surrounded by Grey Wardens...or at least men in Grey Warden armor. Ratham was easily overwhelmed by the three he had facing him, and Solona struggled against the two that dared grab her. She kicked out violently, but they had positioned themselves just so to avoid any truly ill effects. They also knew to keep her hands tightly clamped. What brilliance these bandits had.

There wasn't much time to dwell on it. The man he had pinned down had collected his senses enough to give a great shove. Their roles were suddenly reversed with Cyrano pinned beneath the much heavier armored man. But there was no murder in his eyes, no hatred, no burning rage. Eyes were narrowed with a thoughtful scrutiny as knees and sheer weight pinned Cyrano to the deck. One calloused hand took hold of his jaw and moved his head from side to side, those eyes narrowing further. Right then left. Right then left. Then finally head-on while both hands worked at forcing different facial expressions.

"Flames, why the sudden interest in my face?" Cyrano demanded from between squished cheeks.

The reply was not to him. Instead, the false Warden called out to the others, ceasing any battle and drawing them all close about him with their own newly acquired prisoners in tow. Solona looked particularly venomous, but she was as stubbornly compliant as Ratham. They were sorely outmatched without a mage that could use her hands.

"Do you see, my friends? Do you see what I see?"

Faces peered in closer. sun-browned and weathered, they were Antivan the whole lot of them. A couple showed signs of being at sea for quite some time with streaks of red and gold bleached into their hair. Cyrano felt the part of a carnivale curiosity with his head being moved about in all directions again to give everyone the best look possible.

"The elf did not lie!" one holding Solona breathed with pure astonishment.

"This is he? We have found him?" another pressed.

"There is but one way to know," the first replied, looking up at his fellows with excitement sparkling in his eyes. "But not here. Come. To the den."

Cyrano was hoisted to his feet, and the trio was carried off down the gangplank and through a half-dozen side streets. None at the docks appeared to pay any mind to them, but what could be expected? They looked like a handful of mercenaries in the hands of upstanding Grey Wardens. Their disguises had turned against them with the bitter jab of irony. Their captors navigated the districts surrounding the docks with the ease of ones who had been here for quite some time. It was not unheard of for Crows to frequent Ferelden in their contracts-Denerim especially-but Cyrano was amazed at the level to which they had gone to fit in. More than once, the commonfolk greeted one or more of them by name, if those were truly their names. Beggars called out the Maker's blessings upon them for past generosity that had nothing to do with darkspawn or the Blight.

And, yet, they served the Prince of Rialto.

They eventually came to a low shack in the shadow of the Alienage. It was run down to the point of looking abandoned, and the alley in which it sat was as equally inviting. A perfect haven for robbers, thieves, and common murderers. Not a good sign. Though, Cyrano really couldn't say he was all that surprised given the present company.

One of the false Wardens not burdened by a prisoner rapped at the rotting wooden door with the back of his hand. There was a muffled voice from within to which the man replied, "Wolves feast upon Crows." The door opened, and he vanished within.

The lot of them followed, each being shoved through into the darkness by their captors. They were not particularly rough in their handling, but there was still a distinctly less-than-welcome feeling to the entire situation. Perhaps it was the fear that they'd completely fallen into enemy hands...and had yet to learn who that enemy was. That this might reveal the enemy to them wasn't nearly quite the silver lining the Antivan could have hoped for. The room they entered was dingy but had more space than the deceptive exterior let on. The floor was a gray stone covered in worn rugs that might have once been colorful. The windows were boarded or covered with rags to keep out the light and any unwanted attention. A small fire burned in a pitiful hearth, and that was the only source of light.

A table and chairs were clustered against a far wall. To these chairs, Cyrano and the others found themselves bound, tied with a coarse rope that smelled of oil, mildew, and rat droppings. Solona had given up her struggling and, instead, settled for baleful glares that would have sent any grown man running had he even an inkling the chaos she could bestow upon them. Ratham's eyes would not keep still despite his body being like stone. He was looking for weaknesses, avenues of escape, anything that could give them the upper hand. Cyrano could have been doing any of these things. He probably should have been. But, as it was, he was far too intrigued by the conversation being held on the far side of the room in low but audible Antivan. The seven false Wardens had joined two others of their kind, one dressed in common robes with a staff that terminated in a pronged crescent.

It didn't take a templar to identify a blood mage in that moment. The signs were all over him. Scars ran down the forearm holding the staff where the sleeve had fallen back to the elbow. Patterns and symbols and simple lacerations decorated his flesh and overlapped where space had been lacking. His eyes reflected the fire with an unnatural luminosity, almost as if the flames were coming from _within_ rather than without. Scraggles of dark hair sprouted from his head and hung limply about his ears. He did not cut a particularly impressive figure, but Cyrano was more than certain he was not the sort to encounter alone in a dark alley in the dead of night. Or even in a crowd in a busy town square in the brightness of day.

"He looks to be the one, Aleix. I can see it in his face."

"The shadows make it difficult, Emilio. Bring me more light."

A lamp was lit and handed to the mage with a profound amount of care and reverence. In the play of light, Cyrano could see that the man was far older than first anticipated, wrinkles creasing his forehead and corners of his eyes. His cheeks sagged as if long tired, and the darkness of his hair had its fair share of silver. His eyes were a pale green that was not so intimidating, now, that they were not glowing embers in a sea of shadow. But it did not make them any more friendly.

He stepped closer to Cyrano, bending low to get a better look at him. He had that odor about him that Solona remarked was of the Fade, and it was disturbing to think of what might have touched him for it to be so.

"You have been a hard man to find, Signore Calabrese. Emilio would have given you up for dead at long last were it not for the lead your elven friend gave us."

"My name is Rideri," Cryano replied dryly. "Whomever it is you've been looking for, you're still looking for him."

"No," the mage-Aleix-voiced with a small half smile. "No, I don't think I am." He straightened and turned back to the others, continuing to speak in fluent Antivan. "I told you what to look for to be certain. Find it."

Emilio and one other false Warden began relieving Cyrano of his weapons and armor. It was a task not made easy by his being tied to a chair, but they seemed to manage without too much issue. They didn't even need to remove much, just enough to expose the old scar on his chest that Solona had mentioned was more serious than he'd ever thought it was. It was the size of a grown man's fist and curved in a circular pattern. If it were truly a symbol from ancient Tevinter, it was nothing he could identify or understand. He'd always thought it was an old scar from a duel he'd barely survived. Who had he fought that day? There was a blank wall where a memory should have been.

The expression on the craggy face of Aleix was sympathetic in a most curious way, and Cyrano could not put a finger on why he found this to be a good thing. This was a blood mage. A _maleficar_. Here was a man who dallied with demons and was generally proud of it. At least, one would assume he would be proud of such a thing, to have done so much and avoided possession, but what did a bard know of such things?

"Signore," Aleix said with no small amount of reverence, "we have, indeed, found you."

"I would love it were you to explain the significance of this," Cyrano drawled, forcing the conversation to be in the King's Speech for the benefit of his companions.

"And you would believe me?" came Aleix's heavily accented reply. His face was flat and serious, but his eyes reflected a mischievous glint. "If I were to tell you that the scar on your chest proves your identity as Sebastian Calabrese, one-time Prince of Rialto-a deposition that even the Crows will not own up to-you would take me at my word?"

"Absolutely not." There was a sharp kick to the back of his chair. He didn't need to turn to know it was Ratham.

"Then why ask?"

"Because it would merely be a distraction on your part. You have the King of Ferelden in your custody, and my only interest is his safe return."

"The king is under my _protection_ , signore, from those who truly mean him harm." The mage nodded to one of the others who then bowed and headed up a set of rickety stairs. "But even he is not the real aim. It is _he_ that is the distraction, the snipe in the wild wood. Ines has become desperate, and with a civil war at home, what is a little more chaos abroad?"

Solona had listened with silent interest, her inquisitive stare moving from speaker to speaker before it fixed upon the scar on Cyrano's heaving chest. "And this Ines," she spoke up, careful to not be interrupting too much, "she is also a blood mage?"

When Aleix turned to take in the woman, his eyes were both surprised and scrutinizing. It was as if he had never truly noticed her until that moment...a thing which Cyrano had hoped would continue. The attention being solely on him was not particularly pleasant, but he would gladly suffer it if it kept Solona out of harm's way. A mage such as she was a fragile thing in company such as this.

"The lady is astute," Aleix replied with a queer half-smile and a voice sweet as syrup. "But from a Keeper's daughter, I would expect no less."

It was Solona's turn to be shocked. Her face blanched, making her _vallaslin_ stand out even more, and her breathing visibly quickened. Did he know her, too? Or did blood magic grant access to such things as the thoughts of-Cyrano couldn't even finish his own panicked musings. The pieces made sense to him, now. The demon dreams, the fragmented memories, the scar upon his chest, Aleix's implications... _What maleficar has touched you_? He had thought Solona ridiculous to ask him that earlier. But, in light of present company, he was more than keen to reassess.

"Just answer the lady's question," he pressed, his courage rising as his blood raced.

Aleix bowed respectfully to the bard with his graying head and addressed his answer to both. "Ines is, indeed, a blood mage...after a fashion. She's had meager training at best, but that only makes her more dangerous. I needn't explain why. The political power she has gained in recent years makes matters worse. She serves Queen Esmeralda directly."

"Queen Esmeralda," the bard sneered under his breath. "A pretender at best."

"Just so. Which is why, signore, it is so imperative for you to _remember_ who you really are. Ines has caused harm to more than just you-some of it irreparable. The current Prince of Rialto is an impotent puppet hand-picked by the Crows. And this, my Prince, is why I say King Alistair is the distraction here. Your loyalty has been misplaced."

"I wouldn't say that."

All heads turned at the new voice. Gazes swept to where Alistair now stood upon the landing of the stairs. He was dressed in the same common garb he'd decided on that morning, and, apart from slightly mussed hair, a bit of grime, and a smattering of blood that likely belonged to someone else, he looked none the worse for wear.

"Well...not that _exactly_. He has sworn his fealty to the Grey Wardens, and it is to that end that I hold him. Such a loyalty as that can't at all be considered misplaced. But, none of you would know that. Would you?" He looked into every Antivan face. Every Antivan that wasn't tied to a chair, that is. "And as you were kind enough to intervene on my behalf this morning, I request that you also release my friends. I'm sure we can work out something to everyone's benefit that doesn't involve being bound."

Alistair descended the rest of the way to the floor, his hazel eyes not moving from where they had locked onto Aleix's. The mage met him midway and words were exchanged in low tones. Cyrano didn't like it. Even as Emilio cut him and the others free, he watched the King of Ferelden converse with a blood mage. A serious scowl creased the younger man's forehead, and Aleix's grip on his staff was tight. It was clear from the other body language they exuded over subsequent minutes that they had spoken before and quite a bit. If not friends, they were tense allies.

"Master Rideri," the king spoke up as Cyrano shrugged his armor back into place, "a moment, if you would."

It was his turn to be a conspirator with this young king. The two of them moved into a different corner of the hovel with Cyrano having his back to the wall to avoid unwanted surprises from his fellow Antivans.

"The mage has had quite a few curious things to say about you."

"I'm sure he has, sire. And likely none of it true."

Alistair reached into his vest and pulled forth a folded bit of paper still clinging to its blood red seal stamped with the likeness of wolf fangs. He simply held it up like it was all that mattered. "Zevran's letter to me before you even arrived in Denerim supports the claim."

" _What_?"

The bard snatched the paper to read himself. His dark eyes furiously scanned the familiar cypher line after line, taking in Zevran's tilted handwriting with urgency. It was there, plain as daylight, the whole suspicion that he was, in fact, the former Prince of Rialto, right along with the details of the dual contracts and significance behind them. But what did that matter? Antiva cast aside one slew of nobility for another like a whore with a new petticoat. There was no _reason_ to think himself of any particular importance, especially as he remembered none of it. No. His whole life was already accounted for. ...Wasn't it?

He pressed a fist to his mouth and stared at the paper in the firelight even long after he'd finished reading. He couldn't remember his parents, but he'd always figured that was because they died when he was very young. He couldn't remember wandering the streets of Antiva City, but he remembered spending long summers in Orlais with the finest musical masters money could buy. Who had bought them...that he couldn't recall. When did that happen? Maker, the ruse was getting to him. He was trying to remember every detail of his life simply because a total stranger claimed differently.

It was impossible. That he had once been married to Bianca Alighieri was undeniable. That was too vivid to be a demon's conjuration. But the rest? What was also infuriating to think about was that his entire presence in Ferelden had been contrived, that his yearning for freedom from the Crows had come with the weight of something that could only be more to the benefit of those other than himself. And to what end? The thought of further manipulation to what he'd already been subjected for years sickened him.

Frustrated beyond tolerance, Cyrano crushed the paper with his hands and tossed it into the flames. The king's look was one of confusion, but he made no move to stop him. Aleix, on the other hand, was not so passive.

"The word of the elf is the truth!" he exclaimed, rushing over to see if there was even a single fragment that could be salvaged. His hope was in vain. What words came next were hushed and brinking on hopeless. "If any could have convinced you...I had thought he might be the one if I could not."

"Truth or not is far from being the point," Cyrano spat at him. "I have no choice but to acknowledge that there are a great many things I don't remember. That does not, however, diminish the fact that I am _content_ with what I do know. Realizing I have lost a wife and child sorrows me greatly, and-if anything-I would wish to remember them better. But I am _not_ some instrument for your own political machinations."

Aleix stood there, aghast, his jaw working but no sound coming out. The look in his eyes was not anger or insult. That hopeless tone that had been in his voice had worked its way into every part of him. His shoulders were not quite so squared as they had been, his face not so firm, and the grip on his staff had loosened significantly. Had Cyrano even an inkling as to who this man was, he might have felt a twinge of sympathy. But not in that moment. Not with what this lot was trying to force upon him.

"Signore! Signore, please!"

The bard turned his head sharply to take in the new speaker, and the glare only intensified. Emilio had dared a few steps closer. The younger man's hands were held out in entreaty, and his blue eyes wide and pleading. His parentage must not have been completely Antivan. He was not quite dusky enough when seen in comparison to his fellows, and Cyrano had only ever seen one blue-eyed Antivan before...and that had actually been a Nevarran slave that had killed his way to freedom.

"Please...my Prince, please consider. The man you were may mean nothing to you-because you cannot remember! But he means _everything_ to us. You may think we have something to gain politically, and you would be right." He moved closer still. "The Armada was at its strongest under you. It was unified. The Crows doggedly tried to recruit you without success, you the only Prince not amongst their numbers. Because they knew...they knew that you bought the best potentials in the slave market and kept those children from the Talons."

He gestured widely to himself and those around him. "You inspired loyalty with fairness instead of fear, and we are what remains of that household you painstakingly built and fought to hide. And you deny this-I can see in your eyes that you still deny this-but hear me out. Aleix knows how to break you of this prison you cannot see. Please. You gave each of us our freedom and asked for loyalty in return. You did not need to ask, for we gladly gave it. Let us now free _you_ so that we might all see justice done!"

_The price of freedom is justice._

Cyrano slowly took them all in: the Antivans now crowded around him, Alistair standing pensively off to the side, Solona and Ratham looking on from across the room. Solona, in particular, appeared to be overwhelmed. She had that same glisten to her eyes and downturn to her mouth that she'd had when confronted with his lack of choice with the Joining. But it was even more apparent this time. There was a tremble to her lower lip like she were biting it hard so as not to cry. _Oh, how easily that could be kissed away..._

Giving in to the wishes of the Antivans meant that blood magic would be involved. That much was deathly certain from the presence of Aleix alone. And to what end? Would he suddenly remember only what he had been and nothing of what he had become? Were these memories best left forgotten? Even those brief visions of Bianca, he realized, had only been a harrowing experience in light of more recent experiences. He would fight blighted spiders a thousand times and go through the Joining a million more if it meant he would never again be tortured by her face, her voice, and the blood that ruined it all.

At last, he spoke, though he had long since turned his eyes back to the crackling fire. "Before I decide, at least tell me one thing."

"Whatever you command, signore."

Cyrano looked up. His eyes were hard, and they locked onto Aleix with the cold strength of silverite.

"Who is Valdorio?"


	10. Forgotten in the Fade

Aleix blinked for a long moment. His face contorted its way through apprehension to confusion to some strange and twisted amusement. It was his shoulders that began to shudder first, quaking with the silent chuckle that bubbled into roiling and boisterous laughter. He threw his head back in the apparent mirth, but Cyrano would not allow himself to be shaken. He stood fast, his expression frozen in stern expectation.

"Valdorio," the mage said at last, a finger appearing to wipe away a tear, "is a villain of the _commedia_ -in several plays that you wrote, yourself, if I recall." He grew confident again at that, and that half smile returned. "Cyrano Rideri was the hapless hero of those productions, and it would seem to me, therefore, that you have been living not only a tragedy, signore, but a lie."

He had expected to feel shock or some level of disappointment that the revelation had been precisely the opposite of what he had hoped for, but in light of how everything else had gone to this point, Cyrano couldn't say he was surprised. It could even be said that he felt quite numb. For all his cleverness, he'd been naught but played for a fool. And by something of his own creation, no less, from the sound of it.

"Then who was it that killed Bianca? And why would the Crows-no. No, don't bother." He raked both hands through his hair. "What must be done to sodding end this?"

"If you would rather remain ignorant of your past, at least allow me to help you be rid of the demon." The mage reached out and tapped the part of Cyrano's breastplate that covered the malignant scar. "You have the taint all over you, and that is far more dangerous to our cause."

"Dangerous for any cause," the bard admitted grudgingly.

"A binding may be unraveled in the same way it was woven. And for that, I suggest your lovely companion lend me her assistance."

"For blood magic? Never!"

Aleix raised his hands placatingly. "Her help is imperative for me to _not_ need to take that route. I haven't the life left in me to make the attempt on my own, and there are no Crows here to be an alternative. Her magic added to mine should be enough."

Alistair stepped up beside Cyrano to be part of the conversation again. His expression was still thoughtful and only showing a trifle amount of concern. "This is not unfamiliar territory even for me," he spoke up. "And, at the very least, you're not _possessed_. Any alternative is better than no solution at all."

"What will I need to do?" Solona's voice was soft but anything but hesitant. She spoke with a determination that forced the issue even as Cyrano was about to retort further. He stood before her in two strides, his hands clamped on her shoulders to get her to look at him.

"Are you mad?" he demanded through clenched teeth, a lump in his throat suddenly threatening to choke him. "A demon, Solona. _A demon_. I won't-" He couldn't finish. She was giving him a look that spoke more loudly than any words. She had made up her mind, and not even his pleas would sway her. "Why?" His voice broke.

"For the same reason you are so adamant that I don't."

"My lady, I will need whatever skill you might have," Aleix put plainly to answer her question. "The incantation is simple enough, but I will need more energy than my own. The Prince must sleep, and I must go into the Fade after him. Hopefully, it will not be too taxing."

"And if it is?" Solona's tone was steady even if her eyes glimmered with uncertainty.

"The lady will have nothing to worry about," Emilio piped up. "We have sworn our lives to serve the Prince. And if that means giving them up to magic to secure his freedom, it will be done."

Cyrano cringed. This was a massive mistake. It stank of folly and worse, but he quickly found himself left in the dust of preparations. Even Alistair was giving the Antivans pointers on things he knew from his templar training, on what to do if something came out of the Fade on its own...or inside of someone else. For his part, he was instructed to go to bed. Aleix was forceful on the subject, and the bard had no interest in making the temper of a blood mage rise. He mounted the stairs with weighty steps and found his way into the lone room on the second floor.

It was sparsely furnished and showed signs of the king's occupation of the space. A desk was covered in books and papers and lit by a candle that had since burned down low. The cot of a bed was untouched, and it was here that Cyrano sat himself down. He waited for several minutes in a general feeling of discomfort. He could hear the low murmur of voices downstairs but was unable to make out anything in particular.

At long last, there were footfalls on the creaking steps. Solona peeked into the room, first, followed up closely by Aleix. Alistair took up a post in the far corner while Emilio stayed just outside the doorway. Both of those men, warrior training both, were armed with swords and at least one dagger each.

"Drink this," Aleix bluntly commanded, handing Cyrano a small vial. "You must be in a deep sleep for us to accomplish anything."

"And if it kills me?"

The older man cocked an eyebrow. "The potion or the demon? The potion is harmless, I assure you...merely a concoction of embrium and deep mushroom. The demon we have yet to discover. Knowing the man you were, I would expect pride or rage, but Solona insists that your reactions were based more in a sort of desire. Everything centered on Bianca. That could be more dangerous."

"Demons of desire are particularly manipulative," Solona continued while Aleix made ready for the ritual. "They know your own heart and will use it against you. My father had encountered one in a dream, once, and his warnings to me gave me nightmares for months afterward." She sat down on the bed beside him and hesitantly reached over to squeeze his hand. It was meant to be comforting, but Cyrano could tell she felt none of the emotion she was trying to convey.

What came next was a blur of arcane activity, bad smells, and a tonic that burned of lyrium. His vision went when the potion took hold, and Cyrano collapsed back onto the pillow in what first passed for a drunken stupor but that quickly segued into total blackness. He felt nothing. He heard nothing. Not for what seemed like an interminable period.

When he came to, he was in a room he didn't recognize. Or did he? It looked to be some sort of sitting room, richly furnished with plush velvet furniture and gilded from floor to ceiling in gold leaf. Marble stonework ran along the walls and culminated in a massive fireplace that was set to roaring. A woman walked back and forth before it. She wore a morning dress of heavy white lace with sleeves that belled to her waist. A sleeveless robe of a pale lavender satin was over that, and it dragged lightly over the carpet behind her as she moved. She was reading a book, her lips moving slightly as her dark eyes scanned the pages.

 _Your wife_.

Cyrano could hear Aleix's voice, though he could not see him. He spun in place, attention shooting from painted ceiling to floor with the sharp eyes of one long trained in shadows. There was nothing.

_You married her for love, but you already knew this. Her father was a merchant of moderate means and her bloodline nothing to be impressed by. I needn't remind you how little that mattered. She loved your plays and your poetry, your songs and how nimble your fingers were over the lute strings. She inspired the character of Calabria. It was your love for her that brought you to this ruin._

"Sebastian?"

He snapped to at the voice, his body whipping about to stand fully before the woman who addressed him. She smiled warmly as if nothing were out of place. But there was, wasn't there? He allowed himself to move closer, and it was then he noticed that her robe helped to hide the swell of her abdomen. She was heavy with child...and her death would come not long after that baby was born.

"Sebastian, _mi amor_ , you should be getting to the map room. You know the admirals were to arrive today." She laughed like his forgetting was normal or something silly. She reached up and gently stroked his cheek. "I'm not going anywhere."

_She, more than anyone, was in favor of your support of Queen Salome, eldest daughter of the king. They had become good friends since your marriage-thick as thieves and close as sisters. The Armada was also in favor of Salome, she having a better sense for such things than her younger siblings. That alliance also cost you dearly. Despite the Armada, that was the unpopular faction, for the Crows were behind Esmeralda in force._

The scene shifted. It was the hall from an earlier vision he'd had, where he stood about a table with several men and women. They wore sashes and medals of rank, though some were dressed far more commonly. The admirals. They were not naval officers like in the regimental organization of Orlais. These were glorified pirates from all walks of life, and those that were wealthy had gotten there by not having the cleanest conscience.

But this was not an event subsequent to his meeting with Bianca. It couldn't have been. There was no real talk of civil war, nothing beyond working out that year's trade routes after the Prince of Antiva City had been murdered by his own Crows.

_And this is why you never trusted Crows. They had murdered your father and raped your mother before they hung her from the cliffs of Rialto Bay. They would turn against even those that paid them if there were suddenly one that could pay them more. You never had been the most honest of men, but you had aimed for some sense of honor. Your parents had you educated in Orlais as a child. You knew the backstabbing ways of the nobility, but it was never so crude in the Empire as here. The Felicisima Armada at least faced you head on when they tried to kill you, so you dared to brave your chances with them. This, coupled with your freeing of slaves, was your greatest asset._

An argument was breaking out. Something about the land routes...roads that would be impossible to use without a new Prince for Antiva City in their employ. They knew it would be another Crow, a new Talon, and they bickered with themselves over what it meant. Cyrano felt his anger building, and he slammed his hands down on the table's surface to silence the lot of them. There was a tug at his arm, and the look he gave the one standing there was sharper than he'd intended.

It was a woman, young, perhaps twenty. Her hair was nearly black and pulled up away from her face. She was pretty but not incredibly so, with a square jaw and dark eyes that were a trifle too close together. Her gown was an emerald green and conservative with its ruffled collar high up under her chin.

 _Ines_ , Aleix's disembodied voice intoned, _your betrothed. Your parents had intended you for one another since the day she was born as a way to expand your land holdings and get you one step higher in the royal line. The interests you two shared were few, but she was intensely dutiful to the arrangement-a contract signed in blood, I might add. It doesn't take a maleficar to know what that means._

_Your marriage to Bianca drove her mad. Her mind had never been a strong one to begin with, and it shattered when you told her your decision. You burned the contract in front of her, the blood of your fathers binding you together, and that was the ultimate blasphemy._

The scene shifted again-several times in fact. Images of all sorts flashed before his eyes as he relived both joy and terror, the deepest love and the most horrifying loss. When it was over, Aleix stood before him in what appeared to be a library. The only light came through high windows long caked over with grime and dust. Where they were was anyone's guess.

"Ines learned dark magics from the demon in an attempt to win you back...but her inexperience caused it to backfire. She had wanted you to forget Bianca, forget all that happiness and return to what you once had, hoping your sense of duty would prevail. She had gotten more than she bargained for. You forgot everything save basic habits and the passions of your childhood. You had created Cyrano as a boy but never put him to the pen until you were much older. But his adventures? Oh, those you had long ago created right here in this library when you should have been paying attention to the lessons I had to teach you."

Cyrano breathed deeply, taking in the musty scent of thousands of aging tomes long ignored. He did, indeed, remember this place. He remembered a much younger Aleix rapping his knuckles with a rod when his mind wandered. Aleix had once been a Circle mage, but the Chantry was weak in Antiva. The Crows favored blood mages, and Cyrano's own father had insisted that Aleix take up the craft if for nothing more than to be able to better defend against it. The mage had been reluctant-exceptionally so-and spent the next several years learning what he could from ancient elven records rather than the popular studies into demonology that most of his fellows delved into.

"But the end of this trial is not here," Aleix went on, "and I can go no further. I have unraveled what I can of the demon's bindings, caught as it was in the web of your memory. You must do the rest."

He pounded his staff off the stone floor, and a ghostly portal appeared. It had the semblance of any other door in the palace despite its curious placement in the middle of nothing. The portal opened without a sound. The opening beyond was consumed by violet flame, and Cyrano knew with no small amount of certainty that this was the very hub of all his recent nightmare...and more besides. Aleix was no longer there when he chanced to look in hopes of one last bolstering to his confidence. Alone and a breath away from the heart of his torment, Cyrano had no choice but to step forward.

The flames consumed him in an instant. There was no burn, no true sensation of any kind. Instead, he was merely transported to a space of strange, soft ground of a nebulous nature. There was no true form to the place, no proper earth or sky, and the landscape was dotted with contorted things he vaguely recognized from life. Bookshelves stood in haphazard arrangement. Twisted musical instruments hung in midair. He spun in place to take it all in and only dizzied himself in the process. There was no sense to any of it. No rhyme. No reason. And when Bianca appeared in the center of it all, it was all he could do to keep from falling over.

"I have waited long for you, _mi amor_ ," she said with such a sweet smile.

"Is this what it means to die?" Cyrano croaked, his throat unbelievably dry. "Have I joined you at last?"

Bianca laughed, soft and musical, and her eyes glittered in her mirth. She began to step closer to him, and when she was but an arm's length away, he expected to catch a whiff of water lilies. Instead, there was the sharp tang of lyrium and ozone. Magic. Bianca had been no mage. When she touched him, the sensation carried with it a burning tingle that Cyrano could not make up his mind whether it was even pleasant. His emotions were at war with his sensibility. The whole ordeal made him nauseous.

"You would be wise to leave me be, temptress," he rasped lowly. "I no longer have patience for your games."

The demon pouted with Bianca's lips, but the frown lasted only a moment before a sinister smile peeled back to reveal gleaming teeth. "I see that your desires have changed." She backed away slowly and took only a few steps before violet flames erupted and her figure shifted. When the blinding light cleared away and Cyrano looked back, it was Solona standing before him. ...Or some creature that looked the part of Solona. Her hair hung long and loose, and the thin shift that covered her hugged her frame.

"It's this one you want," the demon crooned, bare arms snaking up around his neck. "How you've yearned to taste her lips, feel her body pressed against yours." She moved in closer in emphasis. "You want her more than the one you lost. Why is that, I wonder?"

A warmth washed over him as the creature was more aware of his suspicions. Her victory relied on his ignorance...and his survival pivoted upon the shred of self control he still had left. The torrents of memories hailing upon him as Aleix had worked his magic left him weary and ragged. And the demon, apparently having fresher thoughts to work with, had a much better grasp on Solona than he was comfortable with. She was soft and warm pressed up against him as she was, her lips tantalizingly close. He could smell the lyrium on her breath, but that was to be expected from a mage. Her perfume was faint and sweet.

He hesitated a moment. There was such a strong temptation to slide his hand about her waist and hold her close. She wanted it. It was obvious. Solona, stubborn as she was, finally coming to her senses...

Cyrano sucked in a breath as a rush of energy coursed through him. His whole body glowed with an intense emerald light as his heart pounded with new life. The spell-Solona's new spell. And from the dreamy expression on the face of the woman in his arms, her eyes closed in anticipation of a long-overdue kiss, he knew it was none of _her_ doing.

 _Demon_.

He still had one free hand. While he completed the action of holding the creature about the waist, he reached behind him for a dagger he desperately hoped he had. Fingers gripped about a solid hilt. It was hard to keep his breathing even between the anticipation and the force of the real Solona's spell.

" _Amora_ ," he whispered, letting his lips fall close enough to the demon's to let her think she'd won, "I have waited long for this."

"I know," she returned, her head tipping back in whatever anticipation she could feel.

The kiss never came. Instead, Cyrano slid the dagger between her ribs and thrust as hard and as deeply as he could. The false Solona's eyes bulged wide, flashing from silver to an unnatural violet. The rest of the glamor fell away. The demon shoved herself away and clutched at her side. She stared in horror at the blade Cyrano held as it dripped with her lyrium-rich blood.

"Mortal, you have betrayed me!"

"Only something with a heart can feel such a thing," Cyrano quipped boldly as he watched with some satisfaction while the demon lost her strength and fell to her knees. "It is to my luck that you have one."

"The female was right about you..."

He shrugged and stepped forward, grabbing the demon by the throat. "Next time you see Ines, tell her there are far worse things in this world than being betrayed." And he plunged the blade home once more. There was an unearthly scream, a shudder in the air itself, and the demon blew apart in a flash of violet flame and magnesium brightness.

Cyrano's eyes popped open to be greeted by darkness. The air was close and musty, and he found that he was laying down once more. The cot. The house in the slums. He sucked in a deep breath to ensure he was alive. All seemed to be well save for the resistant weight across his chest, but there was no way for him to see what it was. One of his hands was trapped in the clutches of slender fingers. The other he was able to raise to get some semblance of an idea as to what had him pinned down. He encountered smooth strands of long hair, the feminine lines of cheekbone and jaw, full and parted lips that funneled air between them uneasily as if from fear or sleep wracked with nightmare. He squeezed the hands that had him trapped. They squeezed back.

"I thought I'd lost you." Solona's voice was quiet and muffled against the fabric of his shirt. His armor had apparently been removed long before, and what he remained in was drenched in sweat. "I could smell the fade. Your scar burned."

"Your magic gave me new life," he replied just as softly, fingers trailing through her hair to comfort her. "And the demon is no more."

The mage snapped upright at that. There was a spark, a flicker, and a candle came to life near the bed. Both her hands came down on the collar of his shirt and yanked it open to expose his chest.

" _Amora_ ," he laughed, "there is plenty of time later for-"

"It's gone."

"What?"

"Your scar..."

Cyrano finally looked down, all the while thinking she had been referring to the demon. "Well, yes. So it is." His eyebrows came together over his nose. "Does that mean the whole ordeal proved a fruitful endeavor?"

Solona nodded, and her eyes flicked upward to meet his. Her lower lip caught between her teeth as she appeared to debate telling him something. "Aleix regretted that he couldn't obey your wish...to leave your memories alone. The demon was too caught up in them."

"He told me. I can't find that I hold it against him, either. Usually, ignorance is bliss, but what I know is far too valuable to leave lost. And I don't mean the politics of Antiva." He pushed himself upright and rubbed the tension out of his neck. However it was the poor of Denerim lived, it was certainly uncomfortable.

"So...then..." Solona pulled her hands into her lap and cast a glance off to the side. There was apparently something very interesting to be seen in the grain of the wooden floor. "What do I call you? Are you Sebastian Calabrese or Cyrano Rideri?"

The Antivan laughed as he caught the young woman's face up in his hands. " _Amora_ , you may call me the blighted offspring of a giant spider if it so pleases you. I will answer just the same."

And he kissed her before she could even think of bothering to argue.


	11. A Prince Among Thieves

The men were all huddled about the small table when Cyrano and Solona arrived downstairs again. Ratham and Emilio were arguing a particular point that somehow involved rope ladders and flash grenades. The guard thought whatever it was absurd and seemed to think that emphatic finger-pointing would make his opinion abundantly clear.

Everyone fell silent when they took notice of Cyrano. He remained at the foot of the stairs with a hand gripping his belt and back straight. Every single Antivan head bowed while arms crossed over chests in salute. Solona quickly ducked off to the side to stand beside Alistair by the fire. She fidgeted with her hair as if she were deathly afraid it were mussed beyond all reasonable doubt. The bard barely concealed a smirk.

“Signore, our hearts rejoice that you are awake.” Emilio came forward and knelt at Cyrano’s feet, his black head aimed at the floor. “Aleix was still uncertain when he returned to us.”

“I could not fail with the aid I was given.” He looked about him at the others, at the faces still reluctant to look at him fully save for Alistair, Aleix, and Ratham. He cleared his throat almost awkwardly. “What, have I grown two heads? Am I without any pants?” He flung out his arms and turned as if for inspection. “Peace, my friends, it will not harm you to look me in the eyes as a man.”

“You are returned to your full capacity,” Aleix clarified with a shrug. “Surely, you remember now the discipline you drilled into these men when they were still boys.”

“I don’t need servants,” Cyrano put plainly as he hauled Emilio to his feet by the arm. “This is not Antiva, and I am no longer a Prince.”

Emilio shook his head as his eyes bravely met those of his master. It was an odd feeling, Cyrano realized, to have to reconcile two lifetimes with each experience that struck him as new and familiar all at once. He remembered those eyes as being more fearful once...fearful and grateful and brimming with the innocent admiration of a child. Now, they had a keenness to them that bespoke of long years of pain and determination, and that admiration had turned into a sort of pride like that a son would feel for his father. There were a thousand stories in those eyes--in all of them--as Cyrano finally noticed that all the Antivans were now looking directly at him.

“You _are_ a Prince,” Emilio confirmed, “even though a harlot may have stripped you of mind and Sovereign. But if you will not have servants, we will be your honor guard, for you must be protected all the more now that you are free.”

“He has a guard,” Ser Ratham growled.

Cyrano couldn’t hold back the smile that time. His eyes glinted in the firelight as much as his exposed teeth.

“Do I detect a hint of jealousy in your tone, my friend? And here, all this time, I thought you were set to guard me from doing something foolish?”

“My duty was always to keep you alive, assassin. Those orders came from my king, and I will continue to carry them out until instructed otherwise.”

 _Assassin_. And there he went being impersonal again. Hadn’t they grown past this part? Wasn’t there some difference in the group dynamic that let him fit in just that little bit better where the Fereldan could see him as something other than what he had done for a living? He had a _name_...

...and what was that, exactly? Solona had made a very good point at asking what that was before he’d stopped her mouth with his own. He was both Cyrano and Sebastian: bard, assassin, and Prince. Each bit of it felt as natural as all the others. It was the conglomeration that was alien and surreal as if snatches of both men were out of dreams. He was alright with it so long as he didn’t think about it too much, the resulting confusion threatening him with a wave of vertigo. In either sense, he had never been anything but himself. He was the man he was born to be in Sebastian; the man he had wanted the freedom to be in Cyrano. Somewhere there was a happy medium, some aspect of himself that could be the man he _needed_ to be.

For all that, he couldn’t blame Ratham for regressing back to the level of familiarity of their first meeting. Flames, he might just insist people call him by various titles or some random alias. It made little difference.

“What was all the fuss about earlier?” he asked, desperate to change the subject.

Ratham snorted. “Your faithful were intent on destroying _La Veridad_. I was trying to explain to them exactly how bad of an idea that would be.”

“We must prevent Ines from escaping,” Emilio spat back, his temper quickly rising to the point it had been. “That is _her_ ship, dog lord, and it is bad enough that there is evidence someone has been aboard.”

Cyrano stepped forward to put himself between Ratham and Emilio but kept it so that it looked like he were about to resort to his usual thoughtful pacing. The Fereldan guard had his duty, it was true, but the young Antivan was consumed by his own passionate loyalty. It was flattering. But it was also a hindrance if their scant few was all there could be against an untold number of Crows. And the Crows would come--it was certain. Cyrano knew enough from his lessons with Aleix to understand that any blood mage would be aware of the loss of their own bound demon. There would be more than just bother in the market to worry about.

And with that in mind, why was there concern that Ines would flee? On the contrary, he would expect her to come after him with even greater fervor than ever. She had lost him completely. He knew the truth. Her pet demon was destroyed. And if he knew anything about Ines, it was that she did not renege on promises--especially those made to herself.

“It’s not the ship you should be worrying about,” Cyrano replied at last, looking to each man in turn. “I assure you, once the lady boards and finds one very important thing missing, there will be the Void to pay.” His attention fixed on Ratham, and he held out a waiting hand.

It took the soldier only a moment to catch on. His blue eyes widened a fraction, and he hastily dug the portrait out from where it had been secreted in his armor. If there was anything sheepish in the way he handed it over, Cyrano ignored it. Instead, he unrolled the slightly flattened canvas with a particular level of care before showing it to the others. Responses varied from hastily whispered prayers to Andraste to curses in fluent, flowing Antivan.

“Taking it made sense at the time,” Ratham muttered.

“For entirely separate reasons, perhaps, but the result is still the same. If all the nonsense in Denerim has been happening for why I now believe, it won’t be long before we have...much bigger problems.”

“Bigger?” Alistair asked from across the room. The perplexed expression on his face was exaggerated by the play of shadows and firelight. “Should we be expecting an invasion of Antivan Crows on account of the jealous wrath of a blood mage?”

“Sire, I’m quite afraid the invasion has already happened--that much has been confirmed, and you know it. What is left to do is draw out the head of the snake. Both of them.”

“Both!”

Ratham crossed his arms over his chest. His brow had furrowed again, and he had that stern look of one annoyed at being kept out of the loop. “And what could your past have possibly revealed about the _present_ situation?”

Cyrano shrugged. “Little more than motive, I promise you. But it does make it easier to accomplish what we had initially set out to do. Rudolfo di Malogna--the current Prince of Rialto--is particularly fond of living a very fine life. So is Ines.”

The plan came easily enough. The trick was convincing the young Fereldan king that it was a good idea. They would all have to put on such a brilliant performance that it would shame the greatest mummers and bards of Orlais. Cyrano would play his role. He would be this favored Prince, and Alistair would publicly proclaim him an ally of the realm. This would be Antiva pledging its support of a broken Ferelden. No nation could recover from a Blight without foreign aid. It was known.

Ferelden had not yet properly celebrated its victory. Feastday revels did not count in the least, and the lack of funding was a paltry excuse. They would celebrate--the Prince of Antiva would fund it himself--and any foreign dignitaries that happened to be nearby were more than welcome to attend.

“And would this Rudolfo not be a little put out that he is suddenly funding such an expensive affair?” Ratham asked, though his tone did not imply he felt any particular disapproval. On the contrary, a hidden smile threatened the corners of his mouth.

Cyrano waved the notion away. “It is merely the lure to get his attention. _He_ will know he agreed to no such thing and will wonder why the King of Ferelden has the gall to say so. It is likely that he will seek audience, and we can continue our charade from there.”

“You’re going to throw me to the _dragons_ ,” Alistair breathed, aghast, as he came clomping over. “No good man would ever--”

“I never said I was a good man.” Cyrano took a seat at the small table and helped himself to the bottle of wine that the others had already broken open to pass the time. It was a rich red, and the basketweave around the gourd-like base betrayed its Antivan origin. He inhaled deeply before he savored that taste of home. “And these are not Tevene we are dealing with. To those particular dragons, I would never feed you. No, sire, these are Antivan Crows--easy enough prey for any mabari dog lord.”

He paused long enough to finish his drink. The others looked on expectantly, the younger Antivans wide-eyed and barely keeping themselves in check. They had waited over ten long years for this. For some, that was half their lives. They could barely stand the seconds it took to swallow wine.

“Then what am I supposed to do?” the young king demanded. He crossed his arms over his chest, and those amber eyes of his took on a particular hardness that Cyrano appreciated. He was quickly growing into his role quickly, this unassuming young man, and that would play greatly to his favor as the years wore on.

“You will play the magnanimous host. But that is not all. You will introduce _me_ as the Prince of Rialto. Of course, there can be only one, so I apologize that there could be some turmoil at this point. Rudolfo is a known firebrand. I will diffuse his temper but not destroy him. Our further success relies on him still being alive and also will depend on if he brings Ines for this initial encounter or if something further must be done.”

Ratham had taken to pacing the floor while all this was deliberated. The guard’s demeanor had softened considerably from earlier, and this plan seemed to be much more to his liking despite that it was no less dangerous. It kept the issue on their own terms, upon their battlefield of choice, and it forced the worst of the Crows currently set against them to come out into the open. That was...if it worked.

“Is your presence truly enough to antagonize them?” the guard spoke up thoughtfully. “To this point, your plan operates on the notion that the sole reason these Crows are here is for you, to keep you a slave to this Ines. I don’t understand what was working for her so well before that she should cling to you, now.”

Aleix softly cleared his throat. “Sir Ratham...you question the motives of a woman long driven insane. My men and I have watched her long enough to know that, yes, she does hunt for our Prince as fervently as ever, though her reasons number the stars and change on a whim. All that matters now is that we bring it to a permanent end.”

“By having Cyrano pretend to be himself?”

“In all my splendor.” The bard waggled his black eyebrows to emphasize his wolfish smile. “It must be the most elaborate of charades...and is probably best fine-tuned at the palace.” He got to his feet and looked to Alistair. “Sire, if you would not mind, it is perhaps best that we return.”

There were none to argue the point. Dusk had already fallen, and there was still the issue of finding Bann Teagan to consider. They were hours late for that particular rendezvous. Anything could have happened. The Gnawed Noble could be burning. The mercenaries could have slaughtered a good number of the city guard. The Chantry sister could be dead.

The Chantry sister.

Cyrano kept close to Ratham as they left the hovel in groups of threes and fours. Solona had decided it prudent to remain with Alistair while Emilio took her place at Cyrano’s side. The bard questioned each man in turn on the intelligence that had been gleaned from that morning’s situation--especially with regards to the prisoner they had all heard reported.

“We were at the Chantry today,” he stressed, his voice low as they took a shortcut through the Alienage. “There was no concern--no especial concern--from any of those Sisters regarding the welfare of one of their own. Neither did they fear us, being two men armed to the teeth and of any possible affiliation. Nor did they come bursting over for the Chantry Mother to plead to me--a Grey Warden with a sword a common lutist could identify--to give aid. Either they never noticed that one of their sisters was captive after having tried to show these miscreants the error of their ways, or she was always ever an impostor.”

“I _beg_ your pardon,” Ratham sputtered.

“Bait,” Cyrano enunciated. “The point of fact, my friend, is that someone _wanted_ to attract a very particular crowd to the market. A Chantry sister as the damsel in distress would bring whom? A young king who had once been a Templar? The warriors and nobles of Ferelden who hold Andraste and her faithful in the highest regard? A wayward bard who it is known can leave no damsel in any state of distress lest his amorous pride be shattered?”

He halted them all when they reached the long bridge that would take them to the market square. The portion that had collapsed on account of the Archdemon had been covered with strong beams of wood and anchored into the existing, healthy stone. Aleix looked on curiously while Alistair gestured emphatically to the portcullis just beyond the river and damaged bridge. Cyrano shook his head and explained his suspicions. It was best for the whole lot of them (Teagan included) that the market be totally avoided. If there was some other route to the palace, they should most certainly take it.

Plans changed in an instant. They retraced their steps back to the entrance to the lower districts and took the winding road in the shadow of Fort Drakon to approach the palace from the rear. It was an awkward thing for the king to have to be so covert about getting into his own home, but there it was. A city crawling with Crows forced that upon the best of men at the worst of times.

The palace grounds were quiet as were the inner halls. Servants moved about in their routine tasks, and guards bowed with reverence as Alistair passed. Even the false Antivan Wardens got salutes of absolute respect. No one had the heart or inclination to explain the truth of the matter. It was decided that a room branching off from the Landsmeet Chamber would make an excellent base of operations for the planning of the entrapment. The funding for such an undertaking was yet a mystery as Cyrano truly had no such wealth--an issue Aleix made sure to address. To pretend that they did required a level of organization that they had neither the time nor the influence to build. As a result, their charade would have to be all the more clever and all the less taxing on the Fereldan royal coffers.

A guard was sent to fetch Teagan from where the bann had set up a barricade in the market. Alistair’s uncle arrived within the hour with a heavy tread and a pronounced sharpness to his gaze.

“You!” he exclaimed, pointing directly in front of him. Despite the sureness of the gesture, Alistair and Cyrano both  were confused as to which of them was the object of the nobleman’s ire. “We still have a hostage situation because you could not be bothered to follow one simple plan!”

“The only hostage situation any of us needed to worry about was handled impeccably,” Alistair spoke up with a firm glare to match his uncle’s. Despite the familial ties, the king was still the king. “Master Rideri thought me kidnapped--which I truly almost was--and he and the others made the wise decision to investigate. What we’ve learned since shines a completely different light on the whole matter that I really think you should hear about.”

And so he did. The whole lot of them took it in turns to explain what was going on with Cyrano leaving his particular involvement up to Aleix. Teagan’s eyes grew wider and wider, and it was evident at the same time that his astute mind was processing this as fast as any man would have been able. In a plea for trust, Aleix even revealed that he was a blood mage with both Solona and Alistair to vouch for his discretion and sincerity. The hour was late by the time they finished.

“So, all this time we’ve been harboring a fugitive Prince who knew he was a fugitive but had no idea he was a Prince.” Teagan raised an eyebrow as he circled Cyrano with his hands clasped behind his back.

“It is nothing to be overly concerned with,” Cyrano replied with a shrug. “Princes are a copper a dozen in a place like Antiva. It only matters here because of Ines.”

“And you think that, by inviting this woman and...Rudolfo di Malogna here, you can rid us of the issue of the mercenaries entirely?”

“I do.”

“As do I,” Alistair confirmed. “My only concern--as I’m sure it is yours, Uncle--is how expensive this farce will turn out to be. How will we decorate for this? How will we even _feed_ everyone, for we can’t leave out even those in the Alienage, not if we’re going to also make the claim that this is to celebrate the ending of the Blight.”

Teagan paused to ponder this over for a long moment. His pale eyes studied the floor in earnest beneath a furrowed brow until he let out a long breath between pursed lips. He then took in each and every face around him, both familiar and otherwise, letting his attention settle on the Antivans the longest. Despite his confidence in the plan and knowing his enemy, Cyrano shifted his weight from foot to foot. He had won over the king easily enough, but here was a man long familiar with the various nuances of both good and bad politics. Help or hindrance came with a breath.

“There is one thing I know of that could help,” Teagan said at last. “There were some...gifts...sent to your brother, Alistair, that managed to go unnoticed despite Loghain’s fanaticism. I never thought I would say it, but they could be what saves this foolhardy plan. Follow me.”

He led them through several corridors and then downwards, spiraling around what seemed to be one of the many towers. Cyrano tried to keep some idea of where they were or how deep they had gone, but there was little to tell him anything. Unlike the stairway that had brought him up from the dungeons on that most fateful of days, this tower had no landings, no other doors, and a distinct lack of dampness. At the very least, the sewers, moat, or river could be nowhere close.

They came to the bottom at long last, and two guards quickly sprang to their feet from where they had been playing dice at a small table. Teagan waved them at ease and gave instructions to have the door opened. They looked to the king who nodded his acquiesce.

It was a massive thing made of a dark wood and held together by wide iron plates. As it groaned open with a slowness that betrayed a certain amount of protest, Cyrano caught a glimpse of the center, which was also a thick plate of iron encased on both sides by the thick wood. Not even Qunari _gaatlok_ could have blasted through such a thing. This could only have been the entrance to the coffers.

The Bann of Rainesfere grabbed a torch from the wall and led them all deeper within. A long corridor stretched away from the massive portal and branched off in many different directions.

“These passages used to connect every palace in Denerim with Fort Drakon back in the time of the Imperium. Most entrances were walled up long ago by paranoid Orlesians, but what remains serves our purposes well enough.” He paused at another door and unlocked it with a key he carried himself. “What remains of your brother’s legacy, Alistair, is nothing if not...colorful.”

He stepped into the room and slowly made a circuit to light any surrounding torches. The others filtered in one at a time, each reacting in his or her own way. Cyrano’s face lit up with pure delight. Alistair let loose a single bark of laughter before investigating the sundry about him. Ratham blinked with a particular level of disbelief, and Solona clapped her hands to her mouth in amazement. Aleix let loose a low chuckle while his Antivan brethren muttered various things out of confusion and wonder.

“Have we stepped into a carnivale, your eminence?” the mage asked of Teagan as he gestured to colorful banners that hung from the walls.

“Why in the world would a Fereldan king have so many things from Orlais?” Cyrano asked while rummaging through a chest brimming with silks and soft velvets, each and every bit of fabric stitched together into one grand outfit or another. Further exploration revealed barrels of fine wines, crates of armor and weapons, shelf upon shelf of rare books, and enough wigs to disguise an army.

“For the same reason Loghain found it prudent to start a civil war in the face of a Blight. The Empress Celene was terribly fond of Cailan and not in any way that the Hero of River Dane approved of.”

“So the rumors _were_ true,” the bard breathed as his hand brushed over a particularly tempting doublet of golden brocade where the sleeves were slashed with black and white satin. Beside it was a wooden box elaborately engraved and painted in delicate pastels. Inside this was a thing of beauty that took his breath away for more than just its appearance. Oh, how the Empress had been kind to them!

Cryano lifted the contents of the box with a reverence none but a true lover of the arts could understand. He raised it to his face and turned slightly to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. It was fine work and undoubtedly worth every piece of gold Celene had paid for its commissioning. The leather conformed to his features like it had been molded just for him, the sueded lining soft against his skin. The ribbons were of a fine linen instead of the usual slippery satin implying use for the stage instead of masquerade, and the black of the mask itself was so complete, it was as if a shadow had engulfed all but his eyes and mouth. His broad smile did nothing to express the true extent of the pleasure he felt in that one single find.

_Il Capitano, has it truly been so long?_

Alistair came up beside him with a quizzical look marring his features. “Are we adding a masked ball to the plan?” he asked as he found a mask of his own: a red and yellow affair with intricate tendrils of ivy painted about the outer rim and twirling away from the corners of the eyes. He raised it to his face out of pure curiosity.

“That could make for an appropriate setting, yes,” Cyrano replied a trifle absently as he held various bits of clothing up to himself to see how well they played along with the mask. “But I believe I’ve just come up with a way to thicken the plot quite nicely--and we can use everything in this room along with it. Sire, are you at all familiar with the _commedia_?”


	12. The Captain and the Maiden Fair

He couldn't sleep. It was simply impossible. His body screamed from exhaustion after such a long day, but his mind was inundated by inspiration. Such ideas flurried about that it was all he could do to commit them to paper in hastily scrawled notes. Cyrano would pace before the fireplace, falling into one rôle and then another until he had each part of the scenario just right. This work would have to be his magnum opus-not necessarily from an artistic standpoint, but the rest of his life certainly depended on it.

Weariness finally overcame him close upon dawn and only after he had scrawled a few finishing lines. They had the scenario, the costumes, the masks. Now, all they needed was a troupe of passable actors, a decent band of minstrels and a fête with so much wine that none would be the wiser. This was Ferelden. He wasn't about to get his hopes up. All that could wait. For now, his eyelids were heavy; his bed was soft; and he was totally spent.

Sleep was a void of nothing. No dreams. No darkspawn whispers. No shades of dead wives come to haunt him. There was nothing until Ellia came to wake him when the sun was high above the castle turrets. Cyrano still wore his borrowed armor, and it was with a good many stiff muscles that he stripped of it to dip into the hot bath the elf woman had drawn for him. Where last night had been an endless font of inspiration, this day found him spent.

At least for the present.

His bath was scented with mint and embrium, and the heat unknotted the flesh of his back and limbs. He leaned back against the stone and simply breathed, his eyes taking in the portrait of some nondescript nobleman. _What a thing to hang in the bath. A nondescript noble_ woman _would have been so much the sweeter_. But it wouldn't have been enough for her to be nondescript. She would need eyes like silver that glared appropriately, rosy lips that smirked wickedly, and a backdrop of a raging lightning storm to convey the level of passion she had bottled away.

But why bother with a painting when one could have the real thing?

Cyrano grabbed for this towel and scrambled from the warm water. Inspiration had taken hold again, and it would absolutely not be denied. He startled Ellia when he burst back into the bedchamber, all wild eyes and dripping hair, but she was not one to be slow to recover. The silk shirt she had nearly tried to hid behind was flung down on the bed to better allow her hands to land firmly on her hips.

"And what's this about? Mabari bite your arse?"

"No, I-" Cyrano grasped for words like his fingers tried desperately to hold the towel in place. "I didn't expect you to still be here. Usually-"

"The king had a new wardrobe sent up for you," Ellia explained, turning back to her task. There were actually several shirts on the bed...and jerkins...and trousers...and short capes...and a pile of plumed hats in various styles and colors. Treasures from Orlais.

The grey-eyed temptress was nearly (almost, but not quite) completely forgotten.

"From beggar to prince," Ellia commented once she had everything laid out neatly. "I wouldn't have imagined it-not even with Alistair being the good man he is."

"I'm sorry, what?" Cyrano stopped mid-reach for a set of undergarments. They hadn't exactly sworn the plan to secrecy, but there was a very large part of him that preferred his identity as an Antivan Prince to not be revealed until the proper time.

The older woman blinked at him. "You've never heard the tales of the Beggar Prince? I'd have thought a bard... Well, perhaps children's stories aren't the sort you specialize in."

"They are Fereldan tales?" He quickly picked up the undergarments and ducked back into the other room.

"Fereldan and perhaps older. I heard them from my mother and she from hers. I have passed them to my daughter and she to hers. I can go home and say I met him, now." She laughed. "Little Danna will be thrilled."

Cyrano came to stand in the doorway as he toweled water from his ears. "He was a prince that was poor?"

"He was a prince whose stepmother hated him, and she banished him to the forest. She cursed him to think he was a woodcutter's son, one of her own spies pretending to be the woodcutter. But he- Ah, I must be boring you. And you should be getting dressed." She crossed her arms over her chest and eyed up his barely clad form with a pointed look that bordered somewhere between amusement and motherly disapproval.

"I can dress while you talk. Truly. Do go on."

Ellia smiled and shook her head. "The story merely goes that the queen's spy felt sympathy for the boy and truly raised him as his own. When the time came, he also helped to break the curse. The beggar prince regained his birthright, and all was well with the world."

Cyrano shrugged into a deep blue doublet to go with the paler shade of trousers he had chosen. "No beloved princess? No damsel in distress?"

"Not in that story. But there are many others."

The bard's hands paused as he finished with the gilt buttons. To be honest, he had only half paid attention to the elf woman's fable, but his mind had been ensnared by a few points in hindsight. A displaced prince. A wicked curse. That was it! He had toiled all night to create the perfect scenario to expose Ines while not alienating the rest of his audience. The results, though each an excellent example of theatrical brilliance, were far too Antivan. He could temper those with elements of this Beggar Prince to create a production familiar enough all. Overcome with sudden excitement, he swept Ellia into his arms and kissed both her cheeks before releasing her startled and breathless form.

"Madam, you are a genius-a treasure!" He began to dash from the room, scooping up sheets of paper on the way. "Where are the others? The king? Ratham? My sweet Solona? Where are they?"

If the servant was taken aback by his sudden fervency, she showed no sign of it. Her concern, as it very well should have been, was making sure her job was done, that her patron had the things he needed, and that she be on her way to perform her other chores.

"The king was in his study with Bann Teagan last I was aware. The others? The Wardens you came back with are in the gardens. Ratham is likely in the barracks. The lady Solona...I can't quite recall, but I hear there is another mage visiting, now. Perhaps she is with him. I am told that _he_ is in the library."

Cyrano didn't wait to hear more. He was out the door and dashing down the corridor in an instant. More than once, he made a wrong turn and wound up in a room or stairway that he hadn't intended, but there was always a palace guard to put him on the right track. The palace library was a massive space that had a modest collection of dusty tomes primarily left over from conquering nations. A quick perusal of each aisle revealed neither Solona nor Aleix, and Cyrano found himself in the middle of the vaulted space with scenario notes hugged to his chest and no one to show them to. The gardens. The others were in the gardens. Even if it could not be his ideal, he _would_ have his audience.

He was less in a rush to this next destination, taking the time to greet the others that he passed with a nod and a smile or a gracious bow expected of a gentleman. The occasional twittering that came from the ladies of the Bannorn would have flattered him under normal circumstances (those circumstances that had become normal over the past decade, at least), but they fell on vastly deaf ears that morning.

A very unimpressive door near the rear of the palace opened onto a vast swath of manicured green lawn. flagstone and gravel paved a grid pattern of pathways, and the central space was taken over by a prettyish bit of wilderness dominated by mature trees, shrubbery, and wildflowers. The wildness of it was deceptive. Cyrano learned as he traversed the lawn that the way everything appeared to be overgrown was intentional, that the chaos was anything but natural. The very heart of the garden was paved as if it were a plaza for common use. A great fountain stood in the center where an elegant statue of Andraste poured crystalline water from an ever-ful urn. Her face was serenity's very soul.

Nearby, the Antivans had clustered upon a circle of benches. They wore the clothes of common men, now, but Cyrano could recognize the angled face of Emilio anywhere...especially with those deep blue eyes. The way he moved was familiar, that toss of his head just before he was about to make some pointed remark where the motion was likely intended to get a shock of hair out of his face, regardless of whether the hair was actually in the way or not. The sideways smile, the half-wink that betrayed when something greatly amused him, and the very sound of his laughter were all like shadows and echoes from long-forgotten dreams.

 _Fool, have you not known him since he was a boy_? Cyrano bit down on the inside of his cheek to bring his mind back to where it should have been. He had newly regained an entire lifetime. He expected there would be many such moments where insignificant details nagged at him and tugged at the pit of his stomach. And there would be time to ponder over such things later. Not now. Most certainly not now.

He braced himself and moved forward, striding toward his sworn men with renewed purpose. Emilio was, of course, the first to see him and stood in salute. The others quickly followed until all were silent, solemn, and with heads bowed.

"I am sorry, Signore," Emilio said, clasping his hands behind his back. "We had not expected you to sleep so late. Aleix told us to take our leisure in the meantime."

"You may take your leisure as you please," Cyrano returned as he took a seat upon one of the stone benches. A jerk of the chin and a pointed look urged the others to do likewise however hesitantly. As Cyrano, he would ask what kind of a master he had been to make such men fear him. As Sebastian, he did not need to wonder. He had not been a cruel master, but he had been hard nonetheless. He had needed men that could stand up to the Crows and best them. He had needed men that could not be bribed with wealth or power or temptations of the flesh like Antivan gentlemen were so susceptible. He had needed the most loyal and capable men the slave markets could give him, and he had needed to impress upon them early the necessity of their role.

"You...slept well, Signore?"

The bard's face brightened. "I wrote more than I slept. I had hoped to share this with the Fereldans as well since much of what will make it successful rides on their folk tales of beggars and princes. You see, it begins like this..."

And so he told them of the scenario he had created, of the love of the maiden fair for her dashing betrothed, of the villain that lusted for her, and the witch that tore them apart. The characters were all familiar: Calabria, Il Capitano, Valdorio, and La Patrista-staples of the _commedia_ yet as varied as the actors that had ever portrayed them. The Antivans leaned forward in rapt attention, wide-eyed as boys hearing their favorite story of derring-do. When it was over, it was too soon.

"And that is how we will ensnare her," Cyrano finished, clamping his hand into a fist in emphasis.

"Ines will pick up on such subtleties?" It was not a tone of disbelief. Rather, Emilio was truly trying to decide for himself exactly how astute the sorceress was. "Her mind is its own turmoil of illusion. Such a fiction might be nothing compared to what she has forced herself to believe."

"That is where casting will be important. I will need to find the others."

"Ferelden has actors?" one of the men piped up. His sarcasm was welcomed by a chorus of laughter from his peers.

Cyrano allowed a chuckle himself. "Of a sort, perhaps. We don't need them to be surpassing fine or worthy of the Empress' court. They merely need to be able to irritate a very naughty lady and her pet Prince."

"Forget the farce, then," Emilio blurted. "Face Rudolfo man to man and slay him. Ferelden is known for its templars- _they_ can handle Ines."

"No, my friend. Here, the punishment must fit the crime. They toyed with me for ten years. I will have my vengeance in my own fashion...and they will applaud the death I bring to them."

It was actually Solona who found him later that afternoon. Cyrano had taken a seat beneath an ancient oak tree to incorporate elements of the Beggar Prince into his scenario, branching out from the root cast to include the one character he had hoped to avoid for the sake of subtlety. But there was no way around it. Cyrano Rideri, the troubadour of charm, wit, and constant ill luck needed to be used as a mirror for Il Capitano. It was the only way.

"Emilio said I could find you here."

The bard started at the lilting Orlesian accent. Looking up from his papers, his eyes first met the rose-colored robes, the cinch with the Chantry seal hugging that wineglass waist. Up and up his gaze wandered until he beheld Solona's face, smiling as he had seen her only that once, that stolen and too-brief moment in the palace hall when he'd first been assigned into her custody. Then, the smile had most certainly not been for him. This time, however, the matter was quite the opposite.

He got to his feet at once and bowed low. Her hand, though not proffered, he took her hand to press to his lips. When he straightened, he did not let go, instead keeping hold of those delicate fingers that he might also kiss the soft underside of her wrist. Her breath caught. He could hear it.

" _Amora_." He smiled against her skin. "And what compelled you to seek me out?"

"The others...they said you had been looking for me." There was an uncertainty in her eyes, a nervousness in her voice. But she did not pull away. "For us. Looking for us. For Ratham and the king. They plan strategy in the Landsmeet chamber if you would see them now."

Cyrano's smile broadened as the fine linen sleeve slipped back. His lips trailed along her arm slowly to the elbow, gooseflesh rising in the wake though he barely touched her. She had not come all the way out here merely to be the object of his affections. The mage was too pragmatic for that. But he had stolen a kiss from her already, and she had certainly not begrudged him such a trespass.

She finally did gently tug her arm out of his tender grip. "What was it that you needed?"

"I need a Calabria," he replied as if her withdrawal were not a disappointment. "And a Valdorio, and a La Patrista. I need actors for the _commedia_ I've designed to trap our enemies." He took a step closer to her and tilted her chin up to meet his eyes more directly. "You would make a divine Calabria."

"I am no actress."

"Oh?" He dipped his head closer to her ear as if to whisper in confidence. Solona was breathing faster, now, though she was visibly trying to control it. He smiled even more. It had been ages since he had last played this game, and only once before had it felt anywhere near so rewarding. "You spent your childhood pretending to not be human, your time with your stepfather to not be a mage. The Wardens had you pretend to be a Chantry lay sister until you were old enough for the Joining."

His hand slid from her jaw around to cradle the back of her head as his words moved across her flesh from her ear down the curve of her neck. Never once did his lips touch her, but even the sharpest of eyes would claim that they had. "How long has it been, then, that you have pretended to dislike me?" Cyrano drew back just enough to focus on the silver of her eyes...and how they were suddenly shaded by her long lashes. Those eyes wanted to close that she might savor something where sight was unneeded, the bard only too willing to provide. But not yet. She had not answered him, yet. "How long? When did my every breath stop being an inconvenience?"

"The spiders," Solona replied, hushed and barely audible. "When you kept me safe from the spiders."

He rewarded her with a kiss, then, light and tentative at first. Cyrano had betrayed his hand already at the hovel the night before when he had behaved with the urgency of an untrained youth. But any Antivan gentleman worth his salt knew that particular game. To delay the reward was to increase its value. It was Solona who pressed, arching her neck even as he pulled back to remain in control. A few moments more were all he allowed, unwilling to test her impatience so soon after victory. The oak hid them from prying eyes as he tasted the tang of lyrium and breathed the sweetness of roses and lavender.

There was no demon to steal this from him. No nightmare to try to drive him into madness with memories of a love long dead. One arm slid about that waist he had long admired from afar, and he pulled her further into the shade beneath the tree.

It's primarily what made the interruption that came the most aggravating thing under the sky. Cyrano felt the joy of contentment for the first time in a very long decade. His back was up against the coarse tree trunk, Solona in his arms and lost in the throes of passion that were long overdue. And, suddenly:

"Rideri!"

Solona flung herself away from the bard as if something had burned her. As the night before, she quickly set to ensuring her hair and robes were not dangerously incriminating, and all eye contact came to an abrupt end. Cyrano was left with his arms in the air, as if in entreaty, and the most bemused expression on his face. He had barely recovered by the time Ser Ratham and Alistair stood before him. The king was excitedly holding up a bit of correspondence that looked like it had traveled the Void and barely lived to tell of it.

"She's coming back!" Alistair exclaimed. "Kallian has destroyed the remnant darkspawn to the north and is on her way back as we speak!"

"Perfect!" Cyrano replied with a forced smile. His primary concern right then was still Solona. Such a curious thing to feel ashamed to be seen with him. Where most ardent lovers would have been crestfallen and melancholy, the Antivan merely tried to figure the reason why...that he might adjust his strategy in the future and not let her escape him again.

"No." The king's excitement diminished to a strange sort of fretting. "No, no, no, it's not perfect. With the preparations the servants have already done, she'll think she walked into a Tevene circus-or that the Orlesians have taken over again. Whose idea was that massive stage being erected in the great dining hall?"

"Mine," came the bard's admission, probably sharper than he'd intended. "There cannot be a celebration without the proper revels, and much more is needed in this particular situation than food, ale, and a bit of music. Don't give me that look. I have journeyed through Ferelden more than once, and it was ever a disappointment."

Ratham crossed his arms in challenge. "And what Antivan flair are you suggesting? You've already insisted that some of us dress as Orlesian swine-no offense intended to the lady. What more must we contend with just to stop your past from haunting you?"

Cyrano's face darkened into a proper glower at that. He thought it was obvious that more lives were at stake here than just his own, that a certain Antivan Prince had a filthy secret to rebury if his role as one of Queen Esmeralda's favorites was to hold. Ines was likely in the same political predicament, personal reasons aside, especially if such a spectacle had to be made with regards to the mercenaries. A small team of Crows could have hunted down one man-even in the court of a king. The large-scale reaction betrayed how pivotal a part a deposed Prince could play in the civil war, and that did not bode well for the Fereldans that harbored him.

He was terse when he explained, disinterested now that what little distraction he had was unavailable to him. Solona stood among them for a time before wandering back closer to the tree. She paced a little, her head down as she listened. Eventually, she paused to pick up the notes for the scenario and pored over them. Her silver eyes darted back and forth across the slightly rumpled papers, and Cyrano didn't realize that his voice had totally trailed off until Alistair cleared his throat.

"So a play before dinner to sow the seeds, then you actually _expose_ yourself for who you really are during the feast?" The young king's tone was incredulous. "Signore, are you sure that's wise?"

_What does she see that makes her smile so?_

"It's the fencing master's feint, sire. Little more. I pour acid on an old wound then place myself within a sword's length of a man who wants me dead...trusting that he will not realize that he's also within reach of mine."

Solona's eyes shot up to meet his at last. "And Ines? You have written Valdorio's fate here clear as daylight, yet you mention nothing of the witch-" she ruffled back through to find the name "-La Patrista. The parallels are unmistakable."

"Would a chevalier slay a lady in sight of all the nobility without a fair trial?"

"No, but-"

"Then you see the part of the puzzle I have not yet figured out. Her crimes are against me personally but not so obvious as what Rudolfo has done-though _I_ know Ines to be the instigator of it all." He stepped closer to the mage and gently took the scenario from her. "That is why I need you to be Calabria. You look the part more perfectly than you know."

She nodded, a small motion at first but deeper as the pieces fell into place. "You need protection from the spiders."

"I do. The most vicious ever seen."


	13. Gigue, Molto Allegro

The next few days passed in a whirl, a flurry of action that became almost an ongoing chaos. Order was maintained by the fine thread of skill Teagan, Aleix, and Alistair held between them, each man taking it upon himself to orchestrate that facet of the plot in accordance with Cyrano's meticulous instruction. They had to move quickly. The public announcement for the celebration had been made the very afternoon the bard had finished his scenario, and Alistair had only held back that they were expecting guests of foreign breeding to allow them more time to prepare for the guaranteed wave of curious assassins.

Kallian returned with two other Wardens at her back. There was a tall, dark-haired man in fine leather armor that gaped at the spectacle that was the great hall. Cyrano couldn't say he recognized him (he was far too preoccupied as it was to give thought to anything outside his imagination), but the nose nagged him as familiar. The other was a dwarf in black iron whose first outburst was a hearty belch that echoed louder than the words that followed. Nevertheless, it brought silence to the hall. The actors Cyrano had been able to find-all associates of Rowan and Bella in one way or another-paused as they were and stared. The servants dressing the walls and rafters with banners and other decoration stopped in mid-action to blink over.

"Don't everyone answer at once," the dwarf intoned with a voice that betrayed long years of drinking heavily.

"I don't think you gave them a chance to hear the question, Oghren," the dark-haired Warden replied drily.

Cyrano quickly snapped himself back into the reality of time and place. "Warden Commander!" he exclaimed, striding over with a grateful smile. His steps halted in a low and sweeping bow. "Please tell me that the king is already aware of your presence. I would hate to have stolen from him the first opportunity to see you returned alive and well."

Kallian's smile was wide and full of amusement. "He has. And he had...quite a bit to say where I'm not sure if he was perturbed, excited, or extremely confused." She looked about her in emphasis. "I think I can see why."

The bard cleared his throat and gestured for the trio to follow him. He took them in a turn about the grand space, pausing here and there as if giving them a tour but explaining how each little piece fit with another to build into the grand scheme. The decorations were mostly Orlesian but with a particular bent to Antivan color preferences. The banners represented the houses of the Bannorn along with select heroes of Ages past. The Templars and Chantry were represented in strength to emphasize the particular closeness Ferelden had with Andraste. If that was meant to inspire moral fear into the Crows, it was a weak attempt at best. However, it was all part and parcel to the intended atmosphere, and that was what mattered.

Cyrano kept the stage production for last. He introduced everyone by rôle rather than given name, a detail Rowan took to with vigor. The lutist, cast as the infamous Valdorio, lavished upon the Wardens greetings of flowery verbosity, which were prematurely terminated by a whack from La Patrista's prop broom. The look Bella leveled at her paramour was translatable only by him, and Rowan quickly finished his soliloquy with far more humility. Kallian appeared surprised to find Solona as Calabria, but the young mage summarized the whole affair more succinctly than even Cyrano would have been able. Granted, her explanation also lacked any sort of artistic flair, but the Commander was not there to be entertained.

"And this whole charade will expose both a political danger and a personal vendetta?" Kallian asked thoughtfully at the end of it all. "And it will be the end of it? Zevran is a dear friend, and I trusted his judgement in sending you to us. But we can't afford your civil war to spill over if anything goes wrong."

"It's bad enough that we felt it in the Free Marches," the dark Warden quipped as he crossed arms defiantly over his chest.

"And who are you, serah?" Cyrano inquired with strained politeness. The level of animosity was just enough to be palpable, and it put him on edge.

"Nathaniel Howe."

So, _that_ was the nose. And the terseness. The Howes were not internationally known for their keen skills in making friends-or keeping them. That this one stood beside the Commander with the mark of a Warden upon him was as much a comfort as the public knowledge that Cyrano had once called himself a Crow. They felt it. Each smelled it upon the other, that taint that was never quite gone of the expectation that a dishonest man would forever be dishonest, that it was bound to his blood, and that his cloak would instantly turn at the slightest change in the weather. That each of them fought against this was irrelevant. The climate needed to be established quickly before they were both forever doomed to be at odds.

"With the appropriate safeguards, this plan _will_ succeed," Cyrano stated vehemently.

"By playing games with the Antivan court?"

The bard shrugged lightly and gave a wink. "What better way to court Antivans? I tire of explaining this, but the lot of you must understand. Your typical Fereldan bluntness will not win you any battles against _this_ sort. If the Orlesians are fond of intrigue, we Antivans are borne of it. This plot must be exposed subtly and with care. I am sorry that it came to your shores at all, but-believe me-a few days ago, it was just as much a surprise to me as it must be to you." He scowled reflexively. "Perhaps moreso."

"The reasoning is moot, at this point," Kallian spoke up, waving away any more of Nathaniel's concern before he could voice it. "How can the Wardens be of assistance in this?"

"I'll need keen eyes and sharp ears. Ser Ratham has already sworn to see to my personal protection for the duration, but there will be a great many innocents unwittingly involved. You, Commander, I will need to be the lady of the house as much as you can be. The Crows never stopped wanting you, and with that comes power. Stay near the king closer than you ever have. Bolster his part in this. We can't allow his naivete to let him fall prey to our own plan."

The elf woman gave a curt nod of understanding, a small smile the only thing to reveal how, despite long weeks fighting darkspawn, political intrigue was a welcome reprieve. Her part would be invaluable. And so the preparations went on.

* * *

Nightfall found Cyrano sitting amidst the torchlight of the armory courtyard. He had found a fine lute of exquisite sound and craftsmanship buried amidst the other Orlesian treasures and plucked away at its new gut strings to devise music for his play's lovelorn hero. The proud Il Capitano, struck down by misfortune and cursed to be the roguish Cyrano of the _commedia_ , inspired a tune of sweet melancholy. No words were needed. The mabari penned nearby remained quiet even as their evening meal was given to them.

Deft fingers swept through the complexities of Antivan arpeggios as easily as they plucked Orlesian trills. The music should somehow embody Calabria and Capitano's passion for her that even a curse could not completely erase. Memories of Bianca could no longer inspire. Though she was the original muse for the great beauty of the Antivan and Orlesian stages alike, thoughts of her did not move the bard to feelings of such intensity as they once did. But Solona...the thought of being separated from her yet still within reach was enough to drive one to madness. The song left its pensive melancholy behind for a more fiery determination.

He saw the shadows approach the courtyard but chose to ignore them...or appear as though he was. The bodies they belonged to moved silently and with superb skill, such that he could make out no height, no build, no sense of if they were human, elf, or beast. But each form stepped into the torchlight at last. Emilio stood flanked by all the others, and even Nathaniel stood among them and looked nearly as Antivan as the rest with his dark hair and brooding eyes.

"And how may I be of assistance to the young Arl?" Cyrano's fingers never faltered, merely changed their tune into something softer.

"Kallian wants your men to train me in a few Crow tactics," Nathaniel explained as he stepped forward. His voice was far more neutral than it had been at the first meeting, even slightly friendly. "But they claim they are not Wardens and take orders only from you."

Cyrano's eyes blinked up to Emilio. The young man straightened proudly but kept the defiance out of the square of his shoulders.

"The lady was not offended, my Prince," the young man explained. "And what I told her was the truth."

"Indeed, but as the lady commands _me_ as a Warden, perhaps her requests should be honored, no?"

"Signore, with all due respect, there is no way this man can learn the Seleny Switch overnight! He does not even fight with a sword or dagger-how can we obey this wish?"

Nathaniel's eyes narrowed almost dangerously. "The bow might be my preference, but I don't appreciate the hasty conclusions regarding my abilities."

An ominous arpeggio sang softly from the lute, a smirk curling Cyrano's lips as he intently watched the facial expressions around him. Whether the training would actually happen or not, a fight was certainly doomed to break out. It was only a matter of time before the gloves would come off...and as much as it pained him, the bard set his lute aside and put himself between Nathaniel and Emilio.

"Calm yourself, Emilio. If the dog lord says he can fight, by all means, give him the opportunity to prove himself or be made a fool by trying." The next was for Nathaniel, the bard's scrutinizing eyes taking him in from head to toe. "The Seleny Switch is a dueling test of skill. Learning it is also a strategic necessity if one ever anticipates to meet the Crows in his lifetime. You start with nothing but your wits-no weapons and no allies. The object is to not only survive but to prevail."

"Some of your opponents may come to support you," Emilio added as if it were meant as some sort of consolation. "But it is impossible to know which ones...or if they will even remain true until the end."

"It's always amazed me how Antiva survives with such a treacherous populace," Nathaniel quipped in return.

Cyrano gave a single grunt of ironic laughter. "The chaos adds a certain spice to life. Those who do not savor it tend to find themselves forgotten in a ditch. Like your harsh winters, the treachery weeds out the weak and faint of heart-but we are not here to discuss either politics or philosophy. The hour is late, and the Imperium did not fall in a day." He nodded to Emilio who then took a step back to stand shoulder to shoulder with the others. "We will not subject you to the Seleny Switch without first letting you see the mettle you will be pitted against."

"I've never shied from fighting dirty when the need calls for it."

"Have you not?" The tone was knowing, the smile sly. "To 'fight dirty' in the Fereldan or Marcher sense is a pale shade of pathetic. You think that to aim below the belt is some sort of unfair move to exploit when honor can only carry you so far." He drew his Grey Warden blade and leveled it at an equally prepared Emilio. "To 'fight dirty' is the realm of those who never stop feeling they have something to prove. Your goal here, my young Arl, is to instead fight with unequivocal, calculating cruelty. Fight with your head, but do not spare your opponent a thought. He is merely a thing in your way that must be eliminated."

The dance began. Emilio and Cyrano circled one another with the other Antivans closing in about them. They took a simple fencing stance at first, fighting with their off-hands kept behind their backs, but the swords sang a gradually faster and livelier tune. Despite the rapid cadence, neither man's breath quickened, neither stony facade faltered. One of Emilio's compatriots leaped in when the drill was established. To the trained ear moreso than the eye was the style recognizable. It was not meant to be a fight in the realistic sense. Each player had their part. They all were to use the same technique. The object was to apply overwhelming odds to a single combatant and to see how long he could stand.

For that combatant to be Cyrano would draw this out significantly. He didn't need to turn to both of his swords until four of the Antivans were upon him, parries and blocks and feints protecting him as he kept his feet ever moving to avoid the more unexpected strokes. Five. Six. The mabari began to bark and howl from their confines at the sound of battle. A couple scratched at the dirt and straw, and others attempted to clamber over the sturdy fence keeping them in. They wanted to play, too.

The game changed. Emilio was suddenly the target and had to quickly adjust his strategy to compensate-especially as Cyrano was still hailing down blows from two very keen blades. And this cycled through, each Antivan having his turn to resist the ambush until it came back to the incomparable bard. Tactics changed once more. Endurance was no longer being tested here nearly so much as skill, and the ambushers were forced to go on the defensive as their master lunged forward. Two combatants bowed out as the flat of Cyrano's blade connected with thighs and arms, signifying what would have otherwise been a crippling blow.

Less capable men would have perished from exhaustion long before even reaching this point had the scenario been real. But these were Zevran's Grey Wolves, and all of them had been trained by Cyrano himself to resist and neutralize the most dangerous of Crows. They needed to be quick, tenacious, tireless. It was all that mattered in a battle where wits were the true weapon.

The courtyard was filling up, now. Palace guards off duty crowded around to see what the fuss was about, and an inquisitive Ser Ratham came to stand near Nathaniel with a grin that revealed he was more than slightly impressed. Cheers and jeers both carried over the din of clashing blades as men arbitrarily chose their favorite fighters. Coins were thrown into a helmet as bets were taken on the victor. Cyrano caught Ratham place a bet of his own with an almost nonchalant air.

Two minutes more, and Cyrano faced only Emilio again, the younger man evidently having put himself through the most rigorous training of them all during his beloved master's absence. He was winded, and sweat gleamed upon his brow in the torchlight; but he fought on with every intent that he could live up to his Prince's expectations. It was admirable.

But even he fell out of the game. It was Cyrano left standing in the end, all the Wolves crouched at his feet in defeat. Some smiled with a satisfaction that could only be felt in the understanding that they had all truly regained something long lost. Aleix had promised them their Prince, but a face and a name were nothing if the man were not also _capable_.

Ratham was still smiling when Cyrano stepped over to rejoin Nathaniel.

"My bet was on the boy," the soldier commented almost teasingly.

"My friend, lies do not become you," was Cyrano's easy reply.

"I didn't know what to think," Nathaniel put in with wide eyes and strange expression. "Was that the Seleny Switch?"

"That was a drill...to practice timing and coordination."

"A _drill_? You're telling me that all that was-that show of endurance that I've not seen even the finest of warriors come close to-was a _drill_?"

Cyrano shrugged and gave a playful half-smile. There were a dozen things he could have told them, everything from the fantastical to the pure reality that proper "warriors" generally fought with much heavier weapons and killed with brute force that was never meant to last long. Antivans had perfected the art of delaying the inevitable if for no other reason than relishing the skill it took to get there. Women were not wooed by headless bodies and gushing blood. They were won with finesse and extraordinary amounts of patience. The takeovers of the merchant houses did not happen with open warfare. They happened slowly, one duel and one affair at a time.

That was something Fereldans would never understand no matter how much breath was spent on the subject. It was a nation still barbaric in many ways despite having undeniable levels of charm. Antiva had pitted brother against brother long before the Imperium even knew of that icy land to the far south. And Antiva would continue to poison itself from the inside out long after Andraste was nothing but a pleasant story to tell children at night.

"Do you still want to learn?" Cyrano asked of Nathaniel as the crowd began to disperse. The men had collected their bounty (Ratham's was...impressive, to say the least...easily a fifty-to-one ratio) and wandered off into the night to do whatever it was palace guards did when not guarding palaces. "The Seleny Switch. Crow tactics."

Nathaniel shrugged. "I am passing with a blade, and that is all. Nothing compared to-" he gestured vaguely into the emptying courtyard. "I will serve how I can with my bow. At least there I can promise you that you won't be disappointed." To illustrate his point, he quickly whipped forth an arrow from the quiver at his back and spun, loosing a shot somewhere into the dark.

Cyrano and Ratham were left blinking.

"Wasn't that a bit rash?" the bard inquired lowly. "There were easily two dozen men wandering about just now. That arrow could be lodged in one of them."

"Why don't you go find out?"

The young man's tone was confident. The tight smile that curled his lips was clever and knowing. Left with no recourse but to be victim to his curiosity, Cyrano sniffed and made the attempt to trace the arrow's path. Ratham walked with him, the two making for a low building on the far side of the courtyard that served as a barracks. The light was too poor to see much of anything with the torches so far behind them. Ratham whistled shrilly for a squire to bring one over to them.

In the amber glow of the flickering torch, both men were left to gape at the arrow Nathaniel had seemingly loosed without care sunken to the shaft into the soft wood of a sign near the barracks door, the target a small letter 'o' that would have been impossible for even a falcon to see from the distance the archer had been.

"Lucky shot," Cyrano quipped.

"Only because such would have been impossible for _you_ ," Ratham replied with no small amount of amusement. "Do they have archers as fine as this in Antiva? Or is that particular game not requiring enough skill?"

The sound that came out of Cyrano's mouth next had no translation as he pulled the arrow free to return to his fellow Grey Warden. Nathaniel's face was expectant, and as much as he'd anticipated it, Cyrano saw no smugness there. It all trickled back to the same source. This was a man who had to live the rest of his life proving that he was something remarkable, someone worth respecting, if for nothing else than to make the last thing anyone thought be that he was remotely like his father. A man like that would do anything to prove his worth in most situations, including fighting dirty. But this?

Cyrano looked back over his shoulder even as he handed the arrow over. That was the cleanest shot he'd ever seen. Without a moment's preparation. And for all his talent with the sword and decades of practice...no parry would have been fast enough to save his life if that arrow had been intended for his heart.


	14. Bolero

Exhaustion was what finally dragged Cyrano to his room at some unknown but decidedly midnightish hour. The corridors were deserted. This was fine by him. It let him rub at the already building tightness in his arms without fear of embarrassment. He was ever thankful that his talents with a blade where undiminished since he last bore the title of Prince of Rialto, but the Orlesian-besotted bard in him-even as a Crow assassin-had not bothered with something nearly so intensive. And no wonder. It was Sebastian Calarese who had created that drill that his men might outlast any Crow, no matter how long that Crow would endure. Cyrano Rideri, on the other hand, preferred to talk himself out of most predicaments.

But, perhaps he was merely starting to feel his age. He knew beyond doubt, now, that he had easily seen forty summers. He could remember Antiva before the civil war, when the Three Queens were merely three princesses with a shockingly devoted father. So devoted, he hadn't ever been bothered to set forth one as his heir, and Antivan laws of inheritance were barely more than vague guidelines with dozens of conditional clauses. Thus, things fell apart when it was evident that the princesses were not nearly as devoted to one another as their father had been to all of them in equal measure.

All that was irrelevant, and Cyrano paused to pinch the bridge of his nose. Thoughtless politics addled his mind, and he would be feeling every muscle in his body come the dawn. It was a miserable situation to be in.

Ratham was not at his post. No guard was. Cyrano pulled up short when he noticed that little detail, ducking behind a statue of Andraste (conveniently poised with a shield) in the off chance that whatever soldier had been posted to mind his quarters had fallen victim to an early insurgence of Crows. There was silence. The lamp light barely even flickered with the air as still as it was. There were no shadows that should not have been there.

He ventured forth once more with caution slowing his steps. It dawned on him that his time in Denerim had been punctuated by Ratham's constant presence. To not have him was oddly disconcerting. The chamber door was closed but not locked. Still no sound, even with his ear pressed up against the smooth wood. A fire crackling. Normal. Ellia always set one for him to fend off the ever-present southern chill. Gently pressing the latch, Cyrano quietly made his way inside.

Nothing appeared to be out of place. His bedding was turned down. The garments he had discarded all over the floor looking for something appropriate for the upcoming feast had been put away. The only change was the figure slouched in a chair by the fire, head cast off to the side in slumber with a book open in her lap. Solona. Cyrano blinked in surprise. Her chest rose and fell. She wasn't dead. But that wasn't even really the first thing that went through his head.

_What, by the Void, is she doing here?_

He'd barely seen her these last few days unless it was for rehearsing the _commedia_ , as Aleix had monopolized much of her time. The mages had become thick as thieves in their own planning and studies, and though it relieved Cyrano to see the young woman get on well with his former mentor, it bothered him just as much. Being denied her presence had left a dull ache in his gut if he didn't otherwise keep his mind occupied. And that, he knew, was counter to the productivity that had to happen.

Cyrano stepped over to occupy the seat across from her. She was deeply asleep, her breathing far too deep and even. The book she held was full of words and diagrams in faded ink. He twisted his head to get a better look at it, catching only enough to gather that it was some bit of Tevene instruction. There was no way for him to make sense of it otherwise. The bard gently pried the tome from beneath Solona's fingers and set it aside. She'd fallen asleep in this chair before for an untold number of hours, but there was no reason for that, now. Lightly, he got back to his feet and stooped to pick her up. She remained limp with unconsciousness even as he carried her across the room.

He made her comfortable in the bed that had been prepared for him, tugging off her shoes and drawing the coverings up around her shoulders. A lesser man probably would have bothered with other matters better left out of mind, but Cyrano was not such a man. Nor was this the time. He kicked off his own boots and went back to the chair, tugging his leather armor off and dropping it as he went. In shirtsleeves and trousers, he collapsed into the chair he'd lifted Solona from and closed his eyes. Sleep came swiftly and devoid of dreams.

In much the same manner, morning came much sooner than was just or polite. Cyrano woke to find Ellia moving softly through the space, gathering up his discarded armor and placing it carefully in a chest at the foot of the bed. Another glance proved to him that Solona still slept there in a continued blissful ignorance.

The elf smiled at him with those glittering, pale eyes when she saw he was awake and came to stand closer to him. Her voice was little more than a whisper.

"I can bring your breakfast to you here, signore, if you'd like."

Cyrano nodded, still more than a little bleary. "And the lady's. If you wouldn't mind."

Ellia smiled more broadly and bowed before taking her leave. Whatever she thought she knew was likely wrong, but the bard was not about to spare it a second thought. Where was Ratham? Was _he_ not the one to wake him with his usual brusqueness that things demanded attention? And, as much as it pleased him to fantasize, why was Solona there? Asleep. In _his_ bed (the fact that he was the one that put her there being totally inconsequential). The elvhen servant came and left again while Cyrano's wool-filled brain tried to process. The smell of food was the only thing that broke him of it.

It only took the act of rising for him to know he'd been right. His whole body from neck to shins hurt like the flames.

"Ellia," he breathed with a grimace, "please, woman, tell me you drew a bath."

She was not there to either hear or respond. That didn't matter. Cyrano stumbled his way into the next room. Water. Hot water. The stone basin was full and already scented. Glorious. He wasn't sure how he got out of the remainder of his clothing and into that steaming paradise, but he managed. A few deep breaths later, he could already feel the aches leeching out of him and away into the aether.

He must have fallen asleep again because the next thing he remembered was a woman's voice carrying to him from some intangible place.

"Please tell me that you didn't spend the whole night in there."

Cyrano's eyes popped open and came to sudden focus on Solona's curious face. She stood in the doorway, her figure partially obscured by the stone of the wall. Her hair was mussed from sleep and her mage robes wrinkled. But her eyes were alert, and that lower lip was caught ever so slightly between her teeth the way it always did when she was concerned over something.

The bard's reaction wasn't nearly so graceful as he would have liked. He scrambled to get himself into a better position, completely aware that water was inconveniently transparent. Solona, on the other hand, only bothered to look him in the eye.

"No, I-" he faltered, doing everything he could to regain some semblance of poise. "I was forced to sleep in the chair. The bed was already taken, and I refused to disturb-"

Solona inhaled a deep and slightly irritated breath before coming fully into the room. "Why didn't you wake me? And I was _not_ in your bed-I was in the chair! _Someone_ moved me."

"You looked uncomfortable."

"I was fine."

"Madam, will there ever be a time that I can be a gentleman without you arguing?"

"Yes. When your life is no longer in danger and your usual guard returns to his post. Ratham has barely slept since you got here and was given last night and today off. I volunteered." She sat down on the edge of the basin, practically glaring at him in a no-nonsense sort of way. "You should have woken me."

Cyrano allowed himself a smile. She'd laid out her hand plain as daylight. Even if it was only half the story, it was plenty enough.

"Are there truly so many spiders to be feared in the dark?" He reached up and rested a hand on hers.

Her eyes narrowed a little but not out of any further annoyance. It seemed more like she was pondering over something that had been tugging at the back of her mind for quite some time. "Crows chase you. For all we know, you could have roused the whole nest."

"But the queen of them is our only target."

Those silver eyes narrowed even more as Solona turned her head off to the side. "She won't even get close."

Cyrano tutted as he lifted his hand from hers in order to trace the curving line of her cheek. He was used to seeing her serious-far too serious than was warranted-though it was beyond touching in this case. By this point, he knew Solona was well aware of the dangers. Aleix would have made her so informed. But even lightning could only go so far when unleashed from such mortal fingers.

His touch did little to sooth her at first, but her posture eventually became less rigid. Solona turned back to him with a worried glint to those beautiful eyes. Her hand latched onto his and pulled it back into her lap.

"Are you sure this will work?" she asked. That rosy lip once more found itself being gnawed upon.

The bard leaned back to place his free hand behind his head. The nondescript nobleman stared down at him as always from his dusty hook on the wall, that severe expression no particular font of inspiration but a strange comfort nonetheless. There was always some level of uncertainty to plans such as this one. It was grand in scale with an unknown timeline for preparation. To one as experienced as he with such intrigues, they had landed in the realm of borrowed time at least two days previously. Everything else had been a boon.

Ines had never moved quickly. She studied every facet before making a decision towards anything...and that had always been the primary rift between them. He had impulsively given his heart to another, burned a blood contract without a thought for if he might regret it later, left his wife at home alone with their young child to chase after a rare fortune that would have made Antiva City a lesser gem in the crown of the realm in comparison to Rialto. And it had cost him everything.

But Ines had apparently _stopped_ thinking in quite that same way, hadn't she? Moved to madness, drowning in blood magic, she had grasped at any fraying thread she could to keep her impossible love in her life despite all evidence that he could never be hers.

And it was more true now than ever before.

"I'm not sure which part you're talking about," he said at last, sparing Solona a coyly casual glance.

The glare was back. Oh, how he _relished_ that look on her!

"Any of it- _all_ of it," she pressed. "So much relies on enraging a woman that is a total stranger to all but you and Aleix. Are you sure this play of yours will be enough? Are you _sure_?" Her fingers clamped down on his in a vice grip of fearful insistence. He bit back a hiss at the pain.

"That strongly depends on how convincing _you_ can be," he replied evenly. He squeezed her hand back, though with a more reassuring intent. "Your performance has been...a little weak at a few crucial points."

"I told you I was no actress."

"Oh, but you are, and I maintain utmost faith in that. My meaning, _amora_ , is that you hold back at all the times when Calabria should be her most robust. Her passion, it is stifled when it should be proclaimed. Her love, it is cold when it should be full to bursting of the sweetest sorrow for what she's lost. Her kisses-"

Solona tried to tug herself away from him in aggravation, but he held fast to her hand. Her insistence made her struggle more, but it also cost her her balance. With a scream and a splash, she joined Cyrano in the hot, embrium-scented water, her nose nearly touching his and his other hand suddenly about her to keep her from struggling further.

"Her kisses are without feeling and too quickly over," Cyrano finished with a wolfish grin even as those silver eyes burned daggers at his. "This is the love of her life that she believed was dead, _amora_. Would she be so cruel to him?"

The mage's eyes softened, though she still did what she could to keep her body raised above his. Cyrano smiled even more broadly. Something in her awkwardness was completely charming.

"Would she?"

The double-meaning was not lost on her. He could see it in her face, feel it in the trembling of the hand he still held. Calabria's love _burns_ , he whispered to her, describing in lucid detail another such drama where the fictional paramour had been intended for Il Capitano. Others sought her hand with dangerous fervency, and some with genuine goodness and wit. But always had her heart belonged to the black-masked nobleman and pirate, though time and distance might always come between them.

His hand gradually slid up her back as he spoke, both soothing her and drawing her closer to him as a totally different sort of reaction took hold. Solona stopped him before he could finish explaining how the hottest fire was nothing compared to what Il Capitano felt for his lady, the mage's mouth smothering his with a long repressed fervent desire. Their moment beneath the tree days before was nothing in comparison, and the sweet pecks he'd received on stage since then were beyond forgettable. She tugged her hands free of him only to clamp them to his face, drawing him upward while his arms wrapped about her waist to pull her against him fully.

The water was no longer of consequence. To them, they could have been absolutely anywhere else rather than tangled in the bath in a mess of limbs and pale silk. Solona's dark hair clung to her neck and trailed down the sides of her face where the water had soaked it. Cyrano tangled his fingers in it as he yearned for a taste of that lyrium tang upon the heat of her breath. A single, smooth motion swept her body beneath his as a wave of bathwater splashed out and over the side of the basin. Her hands gripped at the slick flesh of his back, tingles of lightning seeming to escape her fingertips. Cyrano deepened the kiss to avoid smiling.

And he abruptly pulled away.

With an ease his still-sore limbs didn't quite feel, he quickly got out of the water and wrapped the linens Ellia had prepared about his waist, taking a moment to fuss with his hair in the polished silver glass against the wall. He could hear Solona gasping behind him, partially trying to catch her breath but mostly trying to get any sort of sense for what had just happened.

"Do you understand better, now, _amora_ ," he inquired with a pointed look over his shoulder, "how Calabria's heart must burn?" He turned back to her, kneeling in the puddle on the floor to cup her face with one hand. His thumb coursed a tantalizing line across panting lips. "Forget that others might see-that they _will_ see. Such a love is impossible to hide, especially from the one who returns it."

Ever endeavoring to remain a gentleman, he politely handed her a linen towel and took his leave of the washroom. Solona had the opportunity to dry off as he dressed, and he found a shirt and set of trousers that would fit her well enough until her own clothes could dry...or some hapless servant could bring her something more suitable. He hoped that wouldn't be necessary. After days of charging forward with a single destination in sight, Cyrano wanted nothing more than a few stolen hours in such pleasant company as he now had.

They took their breakfast before the hearth that still smoldered. Solona was quiet for quite some time, studying her bread and cheese more than she was actually eating it. Cyrano watched her with interest. She was swimming in the clothes he had given her, and the laced collar drooped to an almost scandalous degree. But the mage didn't seem to notice. Her strings of wet hair hung in waves about her face as she slowly fed piece after small piece of food into her mouth. Her gaze was aimed at nothing in particular. It looked almost as if her eyes were seeing something beyond the bearskin rug and deeper than the floor.

Cyrano poured each of them a glass of wine from the decanter Ellia had left. It was a sweet and watered-down Orlesian of common vintage but no less pleasing to the tongue than something more rare. A light wine for a morning that desperately needed to be free of all care.

"What troubles you, _amora_ ," he asked as he passed her a glass.

She took it from him and sipped absently, those eyes never leaving the spot beneath the stone before the fireplace. Several sips later, she finally looked back up at him.

"I must never leave your side," Solona said in a tone that implied firmness without being completely hard.

"Oh?" That was a particularly sweet song to the bard's well trained ears. "Not ever?"

She shook her head. "If something is impossible to hide, one should not even try. Calabria must love her Capitano with a fire that consumes them both-but that is only on stage. There is still the feast. There is still the matter of you confronting Rudolfo just to introduce yourself let alone challenge or be challenged to this duel where you intend to slay him. What if all of that is still not enough for Ines? What if, thanks to that demon, she has always been one long step ahead of you?

"She cursed you for jealousy. Despite her apparent argument that you broke a contract, she was jealous of the one who had your heart. You will need a lady on your arm," it was finally her turn to smile, "a lady who blatantly adores you. You will need Solona, Comtesse du Brac, to solidify your claim as the Prince of Rialto."

Cyrano's eyebrows lifted with mild surprise. He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and linked his fingers together before his face as he tried to comprehend. "Comtesse?"

Solona shrugged with one shoulder, well aware that too much movement could be disastrous for her makeshift wardrobe. "My stepfather did not leave me a title. But Geoff did. I never had much reason to even care about it until now."

"I thought Wardens held no titles."

"Says the Prince of Rialto." Her smile became almost wicked. "You can't possibly object."

"I may be a rogue, madam, but I am a rogue with _manners_. I would never deny a lady her very valid point." He reached back for his wine and drained what remained in the glass. "And this Comtesse will never leave my side?"

"Not for as long as she draws breath. As Calabria burns for her Capitano, the Comtesse will shower her Prince with affection."

Cyrano nodded. And there were her cards again, splayed everywhere before her as if she were only just now learning to play Diamondback. But a smirk curled her lips as she hugged her knees to her chest, her feet curling around the edge of the chair cushion. Perhaps...perhaps he had been hasty in thinking her inexperienced at this game. One of her background did not survive the Orlesian court even behind the scenes without some talent for intrigue.

"Well then, my beloved Comtesse," the bard stated with a reverent bow of the head, "we must make sure you still remember how to dance."

"Dance?"

"Will this not be a feast and a masque as well as a _commedia_ performance?" The bard got to his feet and rubbed a little of the soreness from his arms before bowing and holding out a hand for Solona to take. "You must dance."

It was with some hesitance that she took his hand, but he couldn't understand how it could have been from a lack of confidence. They used the empty space between the sitting area and the bed to go over the slow and elegant steps of the pavane, a dance most popular amongst the Orleisian nobility though nations all over Thedas knew it well. Even Solona knew it as well as her own name. Cyrano sought to challenge her with other such dances of varying popularity. She kept up with most. Only once he fell into strictly Antivan territory did the mage freeze in place, yanking her hands from his and holding them near her face to keep them from his grasp.

He slowed the pace and taught her each in phases of four steps. The bolero was easiest for her in its similarity to the pavane, but the level of initmacy between the dancers was unfamiliar. He'd lay a hand on her waist as the dance called for; she would try to duck away. That was a drawback to both Fereldan and Orleisian culture. Dances that were public affairs should allow no more to touch than hands or arms. Antivans preferred the more fluid dances that could evolve from one partner knowing the other's heartbeat, the particular sway of their hips to match with a bend at the knee, the cadence of a breath that had its own flutter outside of the music.

"Stop hiding it, _amora_ ," Cyrano whispered into her ear when he managed to draw her in close again. "How will the Comtesse convince anyone of her love if she will not let the Prince touch her?"

To emphasize the point, he slid his hand under the tent of Solona's borrowed shirt, following the curve of her leg to the small of her back. The woman's eyes bulged in alarm, but she bit her lip to hold back a retort.

"An Antivan woman would not flinch."

"I'm hardly Antivan."

"A minor inconvenience."

Cyrano's fingers trailed upward, tracing the line of her spine until it reached her shoulders. He kept his face close to her ear, whispering things in a florid Antivan that was not intended for Solona to understand. It was ultimately not the words that mattered so much as the effect they had. He could see the gooseflesh prickle along the skin of her neck as his breath moved against it. She was not so stiff in his arms as their feet slowed to a stop. Cyrano punctuated his words with tiny kisses along Solona's ear until he encountered her jaw. The gasp she emitted as his lips lingered there only emboldened him further.

He journeyed down her neck and along her shoulder after, the ill-fitting collar of the shirt moving easily aside. Solona's hands came to grip at his upper arms as if she were trying to decide whether to hold him there or shove him away as she had done before. He took advantage of her hesitation, both his own hands finding their way under her unfortunate, oversized garment and claiming the soft skin beneath.

By the time his lips returned to claim hers, Cyrano had already maneuvered both of them near the bed. Gravity helped with the rest, the thick coverlets and down cushioning their fall. There was no fear left in Solona by then, her hands and lips just as eager as Cyrano's...and there was no game here to play. If a man is without his clothing, he can afford nothing but to be honest. It was a lesson taught to every Antivan boy regardless of family or affiliation. It meant any number of things, but it was never more meaningful than in moments such as this. There were no masks, no costumes, no words to spin lies from. There was a man and a woman and the breath between them, the passion that resonated, the love that bound.

Bodies moved in tandem as that bond of love became absolute trust. There was no knife waiting to cut, no poisoned arrow lurking in the shadows yearning to strike. There was a mage giving in to that part of her that was human and surrendering that which is most precious. Cyrano kept her mouth occupied, held her with a gentle strength even as it took everything within him to take what he wanted slowly and with a tender care. The sensation was borne of completion, his own mind whirling and threatening to lose control of itself as he buried himself deeper in her caresses.

Her gasps became whispers in a lilting Orlesian, words much the same as he had used to tempt her flooding his ear with soft sweetness punctuated by small cries of pleasure. She had never before known a man, but Cyrano found it increasingly impossible to believe that even he had been with another. So perfect was their union, two souls feeling so completely one, that there was nothing outside of it. Not the danger of Crows. Not the threat of death.

Not even the pounding at the door.

That last inconvenience made itself known as abruptly as it had even begun. The thunder of a fist barely prefaced the barging in of Cyrano's chamber door, and Solona's shriek is what finally and truly alerted the bard that something was horribly amiss.

"The king has made his announcement!" Ser Ratham exclaimed, bent over and breathless as if he had run the whole way to this side of the palace from the Market District without stopping. "He has told all the Landsmeet that the Prince of Rialto is here!"


	15. No Rest for the Weary

"Idiot!" Cyrano shoved his legs back into his trousers before stalking over to stand nose to nose with Ratham. "You were _supposed_ to have today off!"

"And _you_ were supposed to be in the Landsmeet Chamber over an hour ago to prevent this very thing from happening!" Ratham returned with equal fury.

It was undeniable that they were raging over entirely separate reasons. Ratham, ever dutiful, was upset that their carefully laid plan had been abandoned-however briefly-to Alistair's enthusiasm. Cyrano, on the other hand, had finally found the warm embrace of a spirit of mercy only to be rudely ripped from it. As if knowing she was somehow at the crux of both tempers, Solona buried herself beneath the coverlets to be as invisible as possible.

Cyrano found it difficult to argue. Instead, he set to pacing the entire length of the room before reducing it to a track before the fireplace. He raked the claws of his fingers through his hair. Sweat still glistened upon his chest that suddenly felt far colder than it ever should have. A move had been made that they knew would need to happen soon but not nearly so soon as it did. From what it sounded like, Ratham hadn't been at the Landsmeet, either, and neither man was so humble as to accept blame. Neither man should have needed to accept blame.

This merely forced them into action.

It didn't mean they had to be comfortable with it.

"Do we know the response of the nobles?" he asked at last, his voice resigned and showing exactly how much sleep he hadn't gotten the night before.

Ratham shrugged, also cooler in temperament but no more at ease. "I'm sure it was mixed. It usually is these days." He took a few steps closer to where Cyrano continued to pace, the guard's hands on his belt even though he was in common dress. No armor. No weapon. None that could be seen, anyway. "I can't be everywhere for you. Even I must sleep now and again."

"You don't need to be," the bard replied with a tired smile. "But the sentiment is appreciated."

"There will be Crows."

"Wolves eat Crows." Cyrano's eyes stole back over to the bed where Solona had braved poking her head out from beneath everything. The smile broadened. "Besides, I have another set of eyes that can go places you can't. And I prefer you not go there, either."

Ratham followed the bard's gaze until it fell upon Solona where she sat with blankets bunched up under her bare arms and one hand holding disheveled hair out of her eyes. Her grin was a mix of embarrassment and (Cyrano was startled to see it) mischief, and the guard's jaw dropped at the sight.

"I thought...I thought that..."

"What, that she hated me? That, shallow as an Antivan _must_ be, I had wooed a scullery maid in my boredom? That what you interrupted with all the bluster of a thunderstorm could not have been anything more than a fleeting tryst?"

"I thought that you were alone. As always." Ser Ratham bowed stiffly and somewhat awkwardly to the young woman at the other side of the room. Then, a sincere apology spoken more to the floor than directly at her, he took his leave even more quickly than he had come in.

Cyrano watched the guard walk briskly down the hall before he closed the door (and locked it) behind him. _Poor sod_ , he thought with a shake of the head. _The things he misses while pining for a Chantry sister. If he would only make a move, such things might not be a surprise._ But there was little to be done for that. Rosamund would stand by her Chanter's Board, and Ratham would yearn from afar, never knowing the sweetness to be had from boldness.

He made his way back to the bed, sitting at the edge and pulling Solona into his arms. He sat there, his chin in the curve where her neck met her shoulder and the light scent of her hair toying with his senses. She held him tighter still with the slender fingers of one hand trailing through the damp strands of his hair. The passion from earlier was gone, but it had been replaced by a need of another sort that required equal comfort.

"This is when it begins," Cyrano breathed before pressing his lips to Solona's neck and pulling back. He tilted her chin to bring her eyes up to his. "These last rehearsals must be the best, these tricks our most clever."

"How long do you think we have?" Solona's fingers closed over his.

He shook his head, casting a scowl at the floor. "Our time was already borrowed. We must be ready-even as early as this afternoon. I pray they wait to make their move until the event itself, but there's no telling what they might already know. Ines knows that I am here."

"As Cyrano Rideri, perhaps. But would she suspect Sebastian Calabrese?"

"I don't know."

He leaned in and kissed her, lightly, gently, a touch of breath before he got back to his feet. Solona struggled back into her borrowed clothing before she ducked out the door to make a dash back to her room. There was too much to be done to waste any more time. Cyrano flung open his wardrobe doors and picked out something appropriately flamboyant, something that proclaimed him to be what Orlais knew him as best. If there were ears in the walls and eyes in the rafters, he would need to keep the more princely side of himself subdued. For, if there weren't Crows among them now, there would be before nightfall.

He settled on a doublet of quilted velvet of a sanguine hue. Tiny pearls were stitched into the cross-pattern, and Cyrano chose a white linen shirt to match. The sleeves were puffed and gathered at the cuffs that he managed to tie himself with the fingers of one hand and his teeth. Ellia had been wise in choosing not to disturb him earlier, and he didn't mind that he was forced to dress himself, now. There was a deeper sense of purpose in his choices that day. His trousers were black with a black silk sash tied about the waist of the doublet. This, he decided, would have to be a dress rehearsal-maybe the final rehearsal-to make sure they were ready for the most important performance of his life. Il Capitano must be there in all his glory.

Cryano slung a deep red short cloak over one shoulder and found a broad-brimmed black hat with a massive plume of feathers fixed to the band with a ruby cabochon. His Grey Warden sword was belted above his hip, and he snatched up his Orlesian lute from where it lay upon a broad, low shelf beneath a window.

The great hall was bustling by the time he got there. Twice as many servants rushed about to make ready, setting up tables and estimating how many bodies they could cram onto each bench. The great doors into the courtyard were wide open to let in fresh air and sunlight, and Cyrano could see the palace watch being barked into line by irritated captains with Ratham walking among them to inspect them helm to boot. His day off. Interrupted by an enthusiastic king who probably wasn't as impetuous as the Antivan wanted to blame him for. To an extent, Cyrano had hoped that _La Veridad_ was truly part of some elaborate ruse, that the demon that had clung to him by old Tevene magic had been the product of some other ill-meaning blood mage, that Aleix had simply come to free the prince he raised like his own son from little more than a bit of bad luck.

Cyrano's eyes landed on the stage. It was a grand thing with a broad arch holding up thick curtains and painted backdrops. A small tower had been constructed out of wood and made up to look like stone, enough to be the corner of a mansion or some lovely damsel's balcony. Amidst the bustle and horrible din in the main space of the hall, the stage was uncharacteristically empty and silent. None of the actors waited there for rehearsal to begin. Rowan, the most passionate of them all outside of Cyrano, did not sit there practicing his lute as had become his habit. The pale wooden floor was bare, not a single prop to occupy it. A lonely thing, a stage with no actors.

"Signore!"

The word cut through Cyrano's pensive state, though he could not say the interruption was unwelcome. Turning, he came to see Emilio striding toward him, a smile on his face as broad as the River Drakon.

"Signore, word has come from the market."

"Word of what?"

"The mercenaries have disbanded...or been arrested. Bann Teagan says they gave his men no trouble despite having been very destructive all last night. Three houses were burned, and the upper floor of the Gnawed Noble no longer has windows."

"But they just gave in?"

Emilio's smile turned sly. "You know and I know-and the bann knows-that such is truly impossible. They've been ordered to stand down by the one who pays them."

"Rudolfo."

"The king's announcement spread quickly. Aleix has suggested that one of us stay near you at all times." The young man stood at attention and gave an Antivan salute as if waiting for some set of official orders to be given him by his Prince. There was only one thing Cyrano needed right then, and it wasn't a bodyguard.

"Find me Rowan and the rest of the troupe," the bard told his protege with a stiff finger pointing at the stage. "Dress rehearsal. We officially have no more time."

* * *

Evening fell, and the Crows did not come. The great hall emptied of all bodies save those moving about the stage, torches and lamps filling that one end of the vast cavern with a hot, golden light. They had been rehearsing all afternoon. Bella stood off to one side, her huge, feathered fan trying to cool her face and neck as the rest of her roasted in the heavy velvet gown that was her costume. The others wearily went about their parts with a passion they did not feel, a drive they barely had the strength for. Only Cyrano maintained some level of vigor through it all. His hand gripped about a staff of wood that he leaned against instead of sitting. When that was not enough to keep him upright, he paced. When pacing did not calm him, he pounded the wooden staff into the hard planks of the stage, his mouth spitting venom if a performance lacked its necessary feeling.

 _Ines will be here_ , was all that went through his head. _She must see. She must feel Il Capitano's pain. She must dread Cyrano's love for Calabria. She must seethe. She must writhe._

He threw his staff to the ground and stomped from the stage, tugging his hair and screaming until it echoed. " _She must die_!"

Silence fell behind him. Everyone had frozen in place. Attentions long wandering had snapped over to fixate on the rigidness of his spine and the jutting angles of his shoulders. The actor playing the role of Murrone, Rowan's bodhran player who had a surprising gift for narration, stood with his mouth agape, his lines half-delivered as he had just been promising to help the cursed hero find his lady love and stop the evil Valdorio.

Cyrano spun about. His eyes, stricken, connected with Solona's gaze as she stared at him with overwhelming concern from where she sat in the tower window. He blinked. For a moment, it was Bianca sitting there, that ghost he thought could finally rest in the depths of his heart. Another blink and blood coated her gown, dripping in thick rivulets down to the stage floor to collect in a pool of deep red despair. One more blink, Solona stood before him, alive and well with his head gripped in her delicate yet shockingly strong hands.

"Answer me," she whispered harshly as if she'd asked him some question he neglected to hear. He had, for she repeated it again. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, _amora_ ," Cyrano replied, trying to soften the tightness in his voice. "Just…tired."

"We are all of us tired, my friend," Rowan spoke up from where he sat slumped against the platform of the stage. His long, black-garbed legs extended before him on the stone floor of the hall, and he fanned his face with Valdorio's ridiculously plumed hat. "I can't quite say we're all at the point of issuing death threats toward ladies unknown-though I might hazard a guess-but it wouldn't hurt to call it a night."

"Maker knows rehearsing while exhausted does little to improve us," Bella put in with an exasperated sigh. "The improvisation is a challenge as it is. I'd rather be fighting off darkspawn with a frying pan."

Cyrano allowed the quirk of a smile. "Stumbling through improvisation while tired at least gives you some chance of survival...but I agree." He turned to look over his shoulder where Nathaniel guarded the lot of them in the great hall with a pair of the Antivan Grey Wolves for support. Unlike the amateur acting troupe, those men were freshly rested and alert, ever watchful for the possibility of murderous Crows. "Rest will grant us all a sharper wit. Take all of tomorrow. The lot of you know the scenario just as well as I by this point, and the time to...step back...will have it not ring so loudly of nonsense."

The air went rushing out of half a dozen pairs of lungs with a relief that was palpable and would have been refreshing as a spring breeze had anyone the energy to feel it. Bella and Rowan hobbled out together on feet barely able to carry them while the other musicians turned actors divested of masks and costumes before taking up quarters in the servants' rooms afforded them just off the great hall.

Solona supported a weary Cyrano back to his chambers where a refreshed Ser Ratham once more stood at his post outside the door. He nodded in greeting but would not make his usual, direct eye contact. Clearly, he was still embarrassed from that morning-perhaps only due to the young mage's presence-but Cyrano could not find it in him to feel pity. He couldn't find it in him to feel anything. There was his bed. There was Solona who would not leave him. There was no other matter to be concerned with.

* * *

"I had not expected them to arrive in...droves."

Alistair stood at one of the palace balconies, watching carts and carriages pour into the main courtyard and even the more distant marketplace. Teagan stood with him, watching the spectacle with equal interest, while Cyrano leaned upon the stone railing with narrowed and scrutinizing eyes. Two more days had passed with a disappointing and infuriating lack of suspicious activity, and the bard was beginning to fear that all the puzzle he thought he'd figured out was truly a farce, demons fashioned from smoke and lies.

"Never underestimate the power of a celebration," Bann Teagan commented with a smile, "especially one financed by an individual as wealthy as an Antivan Prince. And they haven't far to journey, after all. With the Bannorn as good as burnt, most have been living in the northern towns and cities as it is."

"Yes, but where is _he_?" Cyrano muttered without a care for who would respond. "Not a single gilded carriage, no parade of Greendale horses with their feathers and bells, no peaked helmets of soldiers in deceptively heavy armor…." He raked a hand through the waves of his hair. "I hate waiting."

"But you've already waited a decade," Alistair stated with an innocent shrug.

"That was without knowing it," the King's uncle replied. "I'm sure that anything since has been long overdue."

Cyrano straightened and at least gave Alistair the politeness of his full attention. "Sire, I know you share my reservations at risking the lives of others in the settling of this matter. My impatience is just as much due to that as my desire to see this whole nightmare...resolved." He straightened the yellow and blue doublet he wore and returned to his leaning against the balustrade. "I also refuse to be wrong."

"And if it turns out that you are?"

"I would owe you a great sum of money to offset the cost of the greatest feast Ferelden has seen since the Orlesians ruled. And given as I would remain little more than a penniless performer of unappreciated talent, it could take a thousand lifetimes."

Alistair laughed. "Not unappreciated. Rowan told me about your performance at the Warden's Rest that day you came looking for me." The young king stepped closer and leaned against the railing himself, sleeves of white linen pooling upon the gray stone as he wove his fingers together. "But if you think there was truly such a high cost attached to all this...you'd be right only if there hadn't been such a flood of donations by elated merchants, butchers, bakers, what remains of the Circle, and all that the Chantry could spare. Even if the worst should come to pass and your Ines and Rudolfo crash the greatest party in recent history, it is I that would be owing _you_ for what it has given back to the people." He nodded out at the ant-like figures below. "You don't even have to see their faces to know it. They're happy. They're _relieved_. They can stop mourning and fretting and start moving on to rebuild what the Blight took away."

"You're too magnanimous, sire."

Cyrano had meant to sound appreciative. Truly, he did. He had meant to give a genuine smile of thanks, however weakly it might have turned out, but he was too focused on traffic arriving from the direction of the docks where _La Veridad'_ s masts were still plainly visible. A Prince of Antiva would not hesitate to arrive to such an event as equally visible, particularly when his honor hung in the balance as being proclaimed (however unknowingly) as a national benefactor. A smile did come to Cyrano's lips the longer he dwelt upon it that, were it he in that situation, the more angry he was, the more flamboyant he would have become.

Horses would be plumed with only the finest feathers from the farthest reaches of known Thedas. A full dozen chargers would draw his carriage that itself would be completely gilt with gold leaf and hung with rich velvets. Jewels would have encrusted the window frames, and even his attendants would have been dressed in such liveries as befitted a wealthy man of station. The lady accompanying him-as there would have been at _least_ one-would have been bedecked in silks and pearls with tresses done up in the latest Orlesian style. The sun would have blinded passersby as it reflected off the entire caravan, for his would not be the only carriage. His entire household would have also been in attendance, a household full not of blood relatives but of assassins and bodyguards disguised as simple servants. Perhaps (and this would be if he were feeling particularly extravagant) there would be a shower of rose petals at the front of it all that they all might ride with a sweet fragrance rather than that constant odor of wet dog.

"Would you look at that."

Teagan's voice cut through Cyrano's thoughts with the potency of fanfare, and he blinked rapidly to get his eyes more properly back into focus. The Bann and King both were staring wide-eyed at the road leading up toward the palace from the city below. There was the rhythmic thunder of hooves and booted feet, and as Cyrano looked himself, he was almost startled (and singularly pleased) to find that his fantasy was more factual than he would have otherwise let himself believe.

There were not a dozen Greendale chargers drawing the carriage but rather a full score. The carriage itself was ornately carved of darkest mahogany inlaid with silverite that it might shine as well as being impervious to the deadliest of blades. _Practical_ , Cyrano thought to himself as he stepped back from the railing and into the relative safety of the doorway, _and somehow disappointing._ Foot soldiers accompanied the carriage with two more open equipages following closely behind. Ladies giggled and fanned themselves in the bright sunlight as a half-dozen gentlemen entertained them with jokes and other such frivolous banter. The whole lot of them would wave coyly at the crowd that watched them pass, the Fereldans cheering when they realized that this _must_ be the generous Prince of Rialto Alistair had promised them.

Cyrano's attention stayed fixed on the main carriage. Dark draperies hung over the windows, and only shadows could be spotted through the gap of the doorway. The glint of an armored knee. The wisp of palest, thinnest silk and lace as the topmost layer of a lady's dress caught in the wind. That same wind stole his breath. _Ines_. Could it be? Would she let herself be so obvious in what, by this point, she had to suspect to be some sort of trap? He shook the thought from his mind. Alistair was too naive a man to be suspected of laying such an elaborate ploy.

But the demon was gone, her spell destroyed. No mage worth her salt would have let such a thing go unnoticed.

The bard left the Alistair and Teagan to watch and gape while he escaped back to his chambers. Time was up. And he could not afford his face to be seen. Ratham stood at his post, much back to his usual self to Cyrano's relief. The guard followed his friend into the room at the other's terse summons, a bemused scowl darkening his brow.

"They have arrived," Cyrano stated without any preamble or ceremony, throwing off his doublet and raiding the wardrobe for something different. "I will need you to stay close to the King. We can't have him riding another wave of enthusiasm, and Bann Teagan might not be enough to sober him."

"Will you be there as they are received?" Ratham's voice was curious and carried that uncertain tone of one who does not truly relish the thought of being like a ship cast off with no sails or anchor. He stayed well out of the way as various garments flew through the air as their owner decided them insufficient for his purposes.

"No."

"But Signore di Malogna will surely interrogate the King on the whole nonsense regarding-"

"Remind the King that it was a simple letter that informed him of such matters." An arm swung out from behind the wardrobe door with a hand that grasped a roll of parchment already equipped with a broken seal of the swan of Rialto. "The more confused he can remain naturally, the more confident I'll feel that we can pull this off." Cyrano's dark head snapped into view when Ratham did not take the document right away. "Well? _Go_. There is not a moment to lose!"

Ratham went with the letter in hand. Cyrano could hear his rapid steps retreat out of the room and the door close with purpose behind him. This would have effectively left the Antivan bard alone and unguarded had Solona not been truly serious about what she had promised. Mere moments later, the door opened again, and the light scent of water lilies carried before her as she approached the man furiously looking for something appropriate to wear.

"The emerald brocade," she suggested with an almost playful tone. "Wait...no. The violet sateen."

"Sateen is an inferior fabric, _amora_ ," came the trite reply. "Fereldans might find it acceptable, but I cannot afford to be so...so…." He sighed and finally emerged from the wardrobe. His shirt hung open halfway down his chest, the cuffs of the sleeves unlaced and half the hem untucked from the dyed doeskin of his leggings. The pile of clothing at his feet was little more than a colorful mass of futility. _Nothing_ felt appropriate despite all his considerations for remaining only Cyrano Rideri and him knowing beyond all doubt exactly _how_ he would have dressed were that the only set of memories in his head.

But a huge part of him ached to just give the intrigue a miss and show himself as himself. Brazen and proud and sparing no thought for his own security, he would have dressed with the sense of an Antivan Prince where the fabric would have been more grand while the cut of the garment was designed to be nothing but practical and suitable for spontaneous swordplay. He'd thought he had all this already planned out, each outfit for any possible situation. He hadn't anticipated the nervous pounding of his heart or the adrenaline rushing through his blood.

Solona knelt to sort through the discarded clothing herself, separating the shirts in solid colors from the vests and doublets and jerkins of varying hues and patterns. "I thought you had decided on the russet felt for the day of arrival," she said, keeping that level head he had hoped to have. "It was subtle and decidedly Fereldan. You didn't _want_ to draw attention to yourself. Remember?"

"I remember."

He tugged those particular garments from where they still resided in the wardrobe and put himself back together into some semblance of presentability. The hat was an easy enough accessory, a thing as equally plain and unassuming, but he complimented it with the black mask of his chosen rôle, that element of the _commedia_ no Cyrano would be without in the midst of a performance. The sword was last, the Orlesian piece this time to not let even that newest development of his being a Grey Warden be betrayed at the wrong moment. This had to play out exactly as planned.

When he was finished dressing, he turned to Solona. The young mage had finished cleaning up the mess he made, folding each piece and laying them in organized piles upon the trunk near the bed. "Will this pass?" Cyrano asked, holding his hands out to the sides and making a complete turn once he had Solona's attention.

She cocked her head to the side and slowly let her eyes pass over him from the top of his hat to the scuffed toes of the worn leather boots. Stepping over, she adjusted the collar of his white linen shirt so that the lapels lay flush with the V-neck of the russet jerkin with its capped sleeves and tapered waist. Something about it all must have pleased her, for she smiled in a faint, shy way.

Cyrano leaned in to kiss her, as much to brace himself as to reward her for being the voice of reason where his own sense failed. Her hands slid up from his collar to hold his shoulders while one of his cradled her head. The mask was a bit of a nuisance, but there was naught that could be done for it.

"We should see to the King," Solona said when they finally parted, both reluctant to let the world outside have a chance to exist. "Ratham can only do so much. This is _your_ play, my love. You must be there to direct it."

Cyrano nodded, inhaling a deep breath and needlessly straightening his jerkin. "I think we were wrong about them. This is not a nest of spiders we're about to step into. To face down a demon is one thing. To face down the one strong enough to command it...Maker help us all."


	16. Valdorio the Villain

The Landsmeet chamber was full to overflowing by the time Cyrano made his way to the gallery. That suited him just fine. Lost amidst the thronging bodies of Fereldan gentry, the bard was able to secure a decent enough view without needing to worry that he would be picked out-mask or no mask. The Antivan nobles already stood before the throne in their finery. Suitable enough for the planned masque in local terms, Cyrano knew the frills and lace and gems adorned little more than travelling clothes. All things considered, such was not sensible garb for the road if bandits were expected...but most bandits to be encountered in the whole of the country were no match for any of the Crows a Talon kept in his retinue.

And there he was. Prince Rudolfo di Malogna stood taller than the King with a fine sweep of ebon hair that could barely be bothered to shine in the sunlight that filtered through high windows. Broad shoulders were covered in ornate silverite, and a glittering chain tunic peeked from beneath a tabard blazoned with the rampant swan of Rialto. Inwardly, Cyrano seethed. His father's family crest had no business belonging to such a tyrannical cow. But that was the way of Antiva. The one to overthrow a family inherited all, and the di Malognas, what passed for kin amidst their ilk, bore the weight of Calabrese power with undeserved pride.

To Rudolfo's right and a little behind stood a woman with coils of dark hair piled atop her head in simple elegance beneath an ivory lace _mantilla_. Her dress was pale and tiered with broad flounces of lace adorning every layer. The sleeves were long, the collar high. Modest as she had always been, Ines was unmistakable even with her face turned so completely away from him. She was demure, unassuming. Had Aleix not betrayed her dark habits, none would be the wiser regarding her talents as a blood mage.

Blood chilled in his veins as Cyrano regarded his former betrothed. Even as only Cyrano, he could not recall any particular hatred for her until only recently. To think of her where she was not present made the disgust easy. But now?

Ines turned her head slightly to take in the space around her, apparently bored at the pleasantries Rudolfo and Alistair exchanged while both ignored the real issue. Hers was not a beauty meant to be immortalized in song or sonnet, but her nose was straight and her jaw square. Cheekbones dusted a healthy pink supported eyes of glittering darkness, which were in turn crested by sculpted and expressive eyebrows. That homely face he remembered had grown handsome in its way.

But it was not so handsome as to make him _forget_.

That feigned innocence masked a will of barbed Seleny steel, and the ruffles and lace garbed such a one the Crows answered to should she sniff in their direction. The mixture of memories from the playfulness of childhood to that fateful pride that made him burn the contract between their fathers clenched Cyrano's gut and clouded his ears with white noise. And there was the demon. He almost didn't hear when the conversation below finally broached the subject both King and Prince had been dancing around.

"Word reached me while I was on business in Ostwick, your Majesty," Rudolfo began in a conversational tone, "that there was to be a great celebration here." An elbow came to rest on the pommel of his sabre in a signal any Crow would recognize. _Hold. Wait. I want to toy with this one_.

"Much thanks to you, _signore_ ," Alistair replied just as casually-even brightly-as he held up the prop parchment Cyrano had provided. "I have to admit...when we first received your missive, we weren't sure what to make of it." He looked to the Warden Commander who stood, as always, at his side. She nodded at him, green eyes holding steady, as if they had long rehearsed this. Alistair turned back to Rudolfo with a broad smile. "But your appearance in Denerim could not have raised the people's spirits more. We welcome you, _signore_ , with all our hearts."

Cyrano smirked when he caught the slight rigidness straighten Rudolfo's spine. The current Prince of Rialto could see the broken seal on the parchment, could hear the thunderous applause that erupted about him (even a deaf man would have felt the vibration). It would have been a fool at this juncture, surrounded as he was, to deny that the generosity had been his. Crows or no Crows-and Cyrano could pick out which guards were which, and even which ladies had come armed to the teeth-Rudolfo was beholden to a promise not his until he could truly gain the upper hand.

His arm moved, a thumb hooking through the curving hand guard of the sabre with an almost jaunty air. _The king is castled. The game is begun._ With a half step forward, Rudolfo plummeted into a deep bow accentuated by a flourish of his free hand.

"We of Antiva are not ignorant of the past, your Majesty. My grandfather was fond of reminding my brothers and me of how our lands, too, had once been devastated by Blight. To aid Ferelden is the duty of all the realms. It is my honor to represent Antiva, even in such a small way." He straightened and gestured, with that hand gloved in bleached suede, to the lady. "And if I may present to you, your Majesty, _la duchessa_ Ines Maria di Fatima del Sola y Marillo, cousin to our Queen, the radiant Esmeralda Victoria di Blanca del Sola y Attoro del Mar."

Ines stepped forward and dipped a curtsy. Her face she kept downcast even as Cyrano was sure that her eyes remained fixed upon Alistair in shielded calculation. The King kept his reaction well in hand, also, not letting the grandeur of the naming conventions of Antivan nobility overwhelm him. Cyrano found it in him to be grateful that the merchant Princes had decided against such traditions, preferring names that could be uttered to completion with a dying breath. They were not without weight behind them. There was a time when "Calabrese" was enough to send a shudder of silence along the coastline of the Waking Sea. No longer.

But if it still instilled fear within one breast, that was more than enough to satisfy the whims of Cyrano Rideri.

His hand gripped the balustrade while his ears kept focus below. His eyes, on the other hand, surveyed the others crowded around him. It was not possible that all the Antivans would be below in such a situation as this. There would be others, scattered throughout the throng, to keep a lookout for a thing no other nation would have the sense to deem possible: a Fereldan assassin. Cyrano had to admit, the people of this southern land were about as subtle as a stone wall, but the likes of Nathaniel had given him pause. And the Warden Commander. The corner of his mouth twitched. Wariness could be a virtue on this day in this hall.

A glint of silver further along the gallery caught Cyrano's attention. His face masked in shadow, he stole a glance, catching sight of a dagger that would have been plain and unremarkable to the untrained eye. A Crow dagger, keen and likely poisoned, and the man who had it partially hidden within a boot looked no different than any other well-to-do Fereldan doglord. Golden hair, bristle of beard, here was likely a product of Ignacio's recruiting attempts during the Blight. It was certainly worth noting.

Fanfare signaled that it was time for Cyrano to be away before any truly noticed his presence. He slid along shadows and out into the corridor, the comparative coolness chilling the perspiration that had collected beneath his collar. The disappointment he felt came primarily from instinct overcoming desire. He had _wanted_ this moment to involve him directly. He had _wanted_ to come parading into the Landsmeet chamber with a retinue of richly dressed allies and declare his identity openly...just to see if Rudolfo's face would have turned red or green. The fight would have happened right then and there, settling the matter forever. But he, Ratham, and Teagan had long since determined that such an approach could have only ended in disaster. There must be elaborate subterfuge. And there must be extreme patience.

Solona met him in the hallway. Her expression was stoic, but her fingers worried at the cuff of her Circle robes. They walked together in silence in the direction of Cyrano's chamber. It wasn't until they had fully passed three statues of Andraste and four full-sized portraits of Maric that Solona let out the breath she had been holding.

"She was there?" Her voice was hushed, but potent enough.

"Yes."

"The King did not falter?"

"No. Our royal friend played his role very well."

"What now?"

They ducked into Cyrano's chamber from a corridor devoid of guards. It unnerved him, the silence of it, the lack of Ser Ratham to be another pair of eyes and sword arm. Cyrano quickly locked the door behind them. He could no longer trust this palace-if indeed he could before. Antivans had come openly, but Crows always stayed out of plain sight. And noticing that Fereldan convert did little to ease matters. Who had it been? It was no face he recognized, but then, Cyrano had not been exposed long enough to a great many Fereldans in his time here outside of his fellow conspirators.

"Where is Emilio?"

"With Nathaniel." Solona watched as Cyrano took to pacing before the fireplace. Her hands continued to tug at her sleeves while her lower lip became caught up between her teeth.

He knew he was scowling darkly, but there was little that could be done for it. The King had called the feasting to begin that very night. The masque...the _commedia_. It was all happening too quickly, and at the same time nowhere near quickly enough. Cyrano's hand gripped his sword hilt as if he expected it to fly from its scabbard by itself. His heart raced. There was still an _entire afternoon_ before he could even begin that which he'd been planning for over a week.

A hand came to rest on the rigidness of his forearm, his head whipping about to come face to face with Solona. Her touch was gentle even if the look in her eyes was anything but calm.

"We will end this," she said, her voice hardly more than a small rush of breath. "Have faith."

Cyrano sighed, deflating and collapsing into the high-backed chair with a weariness he'd been keeping at bay for some time. Sleep did not come easily of late, and every muscle ached from hours of rehearsal and martial drills. To an extent, there was a part of him-right then, that very moment-that wanted to shut his eyes and block out everything, to give himself over to darkness and dreams until the Crows simply left, their game over with nothing won.

"She's hardly changed," he said at last, the tips of his fingers supporting his head at the temple, the white linen of his shirt flowing over the arm of the chair. "To be honest...I can't say I had any particular expectations, but…." Cyrano trailed off, his eyes losing focus somewhere beneath the floor.

The mage sat down across from him. She folded her hands in her lap and merely waited for him to go on. Her eyes still glistened with concern, but it was as if something warned her to not interfere.

"We were children together," he went on. "Spent entire summers at her father's summer palace. It was by the sea, just outside of Rialto. It had higher turrets than the city walls, and we would pretend that all we could see was ours." A smile cracked his face. "Our kingdom had a different name every time. That changed when we got older, of course. Boys learn to be strong, stubborn men in Antiva, while girls learn to be delicate and willing to please. The education I received in Orlais gave me...other expectations. I didn't like what Ines had been trained to become, and she didn't much care for the apparent disregard I had for traditions. I had hoped that, eventually, we would have an argument that would prevent us from speaking ever again, but that damned agreement between our families kept her loyal.

"Bianca was the only thing that really got a rise out of her. You probably won't believe it, but that romance was a total accident. My parents didn't even know how frequently I would sneak out to woo a common merchant's daughter, all to get at Ines. What drove me, I don't know. That we differed? Surely, it must have had something to do with that, but I think-more than anything-it was out of... _love_...for Ines. The courts teemed with Crows, and I had been brought up to distrust them. If Ines and I were so promised by the blood of our fathers, a marriage could only truly work if she were in agreement. Making her jealous got her attention when I was losing my hold of it. I ruined my own plan the moment I let myself truly fall in love with Bianca."

Cyrano brought his gaze back to take in Solona, her slight figure looking uncomfortable where she sat. Silent tears stained her pale cheeks as she blinked back at him. Her lower lip trembled with the same realization that he had: this would not be so easy as killing spiders.

He shrugged, almost nonchalant. "I regret nothing that's happened since. The amount of affection I feel for Ines pivots upon childhood memory. Neither of us are children any longer, and it takes the mind of a woman grown to shackle a man with a demon. That I might have created that demon myself, I can't deny, but the act leaves no room in my heart to forgive. Only pity."

Neither spoke for what felt like an age. There was no sound from outside in the corridor, no fire crackling upon the hearth, no noise that could in any way be a comfort outside of their own breathing and the blood coursing through their veins in rhythmic white noise. Cyrano stared at the young woman with barely disguised fear, as if the revelation would make her prefer to keep her distance. That she averted those silver-gray eyes to the floor did little to help.

"We have a saying in Orlais," Solona said at last, still not meeting his gaze, "that an Antivan would rather poison his own well than let another drink from it. Regardless of what _you_ did, it was Ines that poisoned the well...and she did it with blood." She moved from her seat to kneel before him on the floor, her two small hands closing about the one of his that hung limp upon his knee. "Of all the choices she could have made, she chose the one from which there is no return. And what she did to you was a punishment that in no way fit the crime."

"I knew she was emotionally fragile."

"But you also knew that she was strong in her resolve. If that strength had been turned against the Crows, perhaps Antiva would no longer be at war with itself. But you never would have loved Bianca, and I would not be here with you now." She pressed soft lips to the flesh of his knuckles. "Love might be unexpected, but blood magic is never an accident. She will do it again if you give her half a chance. Your well is not hers to poison."

"No, _amora_ ," Cyrano replied as he bent forward to catch her up in his arms and bury his face in her hair. She returned his embrace with a grip of iron, and that alone let the knots about his gut loosen and unravel. "And neither shall she taint another while I still live."

Hours away or not, they didn't waste another moment. Cyrano gathered together every change of clothing he would need and packed an oilskin sack with the lot. He couldn't keep coming back here to his chambers. The walk was too long, and there were too many turns and alcoves the enemy could take advantage of. This night, the stage would be his sanctuary, and he would use that to his utmost advantage.

He insisted the same for Solona. After he snatched up his lute, he followed her to her quarters in the west tower (much smaller and more modest than he would have expected) to find what they could to hide her identity as a mage as much as possible. Orlesian garb had been delivered to her as well in the days past, and it was the bard's expert eye that selected what would distinguish Solona from the actress Calabria from the Comtesse du Brac.

They took the servants' stairways down to the main floor and then the narrower service corridors to the kitchens and beyond. A space had been set aside as the dressing room for the production, and Cyrano was a bit surprised to find the entirety of his Fereldan acting troupe already there, sitting about on chests or stools and talking excitedly over their hot noontime meals.

"There you are!" Rowan exclaimed, hailing Cyrano from the far side of the room cluttered with costuming and borrowed dressing tables. "Emilio's been asking every five minutes if we'd seen you. Ratham has him guarding the great hall."

"Is everything alright?" Cyrano inquired, setting his load down.

"I think that's what _he_ wanted to know," Bella replied. "He said he hadn't seen you in the Landsmeet chamber when the Prince arrived."

The bard allowed a laugh that lifted more of the weight from his shoulders. If Emilio hadn't seen him, that meant that none of the Wolves had. And that, in turn, meant that the Crows were as equally blind. For now.

"I was there," Cyrano said at last, tugging off his russet doublet in favor of Il Capitano's velvet red with tiny pearls. His linen shirt also got traded for one more appropriate for the rôle: black silk that molded to his form like paint yet could billow with the slightest rush of air. A sash of sanguine damask was tied about his waist over black breeches and leather boots polished to an ebony shine. A short cape of scarlet velvet was draped over his left shoulder to leave his sword arm clear, and the plumed hat with ruby cabochon graced his brow with a debonair finish. Complete with the mask, it made him every inch the dashing rogue, and that had, indeed, been his intention when he redesigned the Ages-old character some years ago.

The others watched him preen with interest, half of them fascinated by what was considered normal behavior in Orlais and Antiva both, and the other half unsure if what they saw could be in any way construed as amusing. Bella set to fanning herself with the great, dyed feathers of La Patrista.

"Make certain your rapier is sharp," the bard stated in an almost offhand way to Rowan as he tugged on a pair of fitted leather gloves. "Do you remember the particular current events to weave in?"

"How could I forget?" Rowan replied with an easy shrug. "Valdorio brags of his recent conquest into the Queen's chambers...where it is revealed that he actually conquered her younger sister who is blessed with wealth but not beauty. He bribes merchants and holy men during the scene in the market, which is when Cyrano sings of ill-gotten gains. And at his pretense of being the pirate king in Capitano's apparent absence, the crowd's laughter degenerates into the cawing of crows."

Cyrano scowled at his reflection in the mirror before him. There was a risk-there would always be a risk-that di Malogna would take more offense to Rowan than Cyrano himself, especially as the lutist had taken to his rôle with relish. With the improvisation, it was possible to go overboard too soon, but the bard would have to control that as much as he could. Bella would also be there. Even if her acting skills were lacking in any conceivable way (which they weren't, even by Orlesian standards...which was a surprise), the woman had a talent for keeping Rowan in line on stage as well as off.

But it might not even be Rowan they would have to worry about. Or di Malogna. Cyrano stole a glance over at Solona where she stood arranging her costumes and gown for the masque near the changing screen. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face like always, a long tail trailing down the back of her Circle robes to touch the top of her heavy belt. The fact she was even involved made her a target as much as it made her a weapon. Cyrano stepped over to her as his hands worked at a leather thong about his neck and the knot that held it there.

"Someone once told me that this was a defense against blood magic," he said lowly in her ear as he placed her own amulet at her throat once more.

"One that _you_ need," Solona protested, though she did not turn around or lift a finger to remove the disc of carved wood. "I have protections enough."

"I insist," he whispered, lowering his head to leave a kiss behind her ear.

There was a gentle clearing of the throat behind them. Cyrano and Solona both turned to see Aleix standing there just a few paces beyond with a small clay pot in his hands.

"I have brought the paste for your blood writing, my dear," the old mage said with a hint of a smile and a warm twinkle in his eyes. "The Comtesse du Brac is not the daughter of a Dalish keeper, and neither is Calabria. If the _seignore_ will permit me."

Cyrano bowed out of the way while Solona took a seat at a vanity. Aleix smeared her face with a flesh-colored paint thicker even than what Orlesian ladies used to cover every possible flaw. The dark lines of lightning tattooed into the young woman's skin vanished completely beneath the tinted mixture, leaving behind what appeared to be smooth and unmarked flesh.

"That will stand up to water, wine, perspiration, and perhaps even spider venom," Aleix explained when he was finished, taking a step back to examine his work. "Lyrium and the earth itself will work together to keep your true identity safe. I have a tincture that will remove it when all this is through."

Leaning forward in her seat, Solona examined her own face as if she had never seen it before. Her eyes were wide as she traced where she knew _vallaslin_ once had shown with bold defiance against the fact that she looked more human than elf. Cyrano took her in through the reflection in the mirror. He could appreciate being able to see her face in a way none had since she was a child, but there was something off in not seeing those cheekbones and brow arches emphasized by the potent symbol of nature Solona had learned to tame. She felt it, too. The young mage sat back in her seat with a particular slouch in her shoulders and her lips mashed together. She couldn't find the words to say what she made of herself.

"My lady-a vision!" Rowan spoke up when he sensed the awkwardness. "Even your closest friends would have to look twice to recognize you. As Calabria? Not a single Crow would ever suspect you for a Dalish mage."

"Do I look like her?" Solona asked, her eyes meeting Cyrano's through the mirror. There was a tension in her voice, a slightly higher pitch that betrayed the strain she felt.

"Calabria?"

"No."

Cyrano swallowed hard and struggled to maintain his own composure. He knew what she meant... _whom_ she meant. His mouth opened, but the word simply wouldn't leave his throat. If those pale eyes were darker, that ebon hair laden with curls….

"Yes," he croaked at last as he stepped back over to her and rested quaking hands on her shoulders as much to steady himself as to to comfort her. Her hands came up to grasp his, and she allowed herself to lean back against him. "And Ines will hate you for it."


	17. Commedia

As with all things, it began in darkness. Heavy drapes were drawn over the tall windows of the great hall to block the late afternoon sun as the crowd of revellers-both noble and common-hushed in anticipation. Only a few torches along the inside wall that separated the grand space from the kitchens and servants' corridors remained burning, casting the sea of faces in teasing, flickering shadows. If held breath had a sound, the hall echoed with it.

"Lords and ladies!" a voice boomed. A second later, a line of flame leaped to life at the front of the stage, illuminating the entirety with a golden brightness. In a swirl of color, the bearded Murrone spun into view with bare hands held high above his head in a grandiose gesture. "Sers and serrahs, madames and messeres-from far and wide you have come, and from further still we have brought to you the story of a lifetime, a story fantastic and familiar, a story of love, of betrayal, of a villain most vile and a lady most divine. But, most of all, lords and ladies, it is the story of a _man_. And as with all such men"-Murrone stepped aside as the curtains were drawn apart, casting light upon a cast still as statues-"it is the most important story of all."

Murrone came to a halt beside Solona, the young woman posed in a demure stance with her face cast to the floor a bit behind her, a basket in her hands and the length of her deep blue gown reaching the ground. "It begins with a woman-doesn't it always?-though it is _the_ woman about whom all other lives turn. She is the blazing sun in a sky of lesser stars: Calabria, fair and pure, whose heart beats for one and one alone.

"And who is this one?" The narrator spun off again, this time to the opposite side of the stage where he came to rest as if in a deep bow with one leg extended long and low. His hands motioned to Cyrano, proudly erect as Il Capitano, blade at his hip and fingers touching a golden medal glinting upon his chest. "Why it is he, the legendary hero, Il Capitano, recently returned from the wars and eager to once again be with his beloved." Murrone turned more fully to the audience with a conspiratorial finger alongside his nose. "They are betrothed, you see, though the lady fair has had to wait long years for this day to come. To each other they have remained true, and it is on this day-the day of Il Capitano's homecoming-that we find them."

Figures burst to life. Calabria moved about as if shopping in the market, with the elven Infanta and Murrone manning the stalls. Il Capitano continued to stand off to the side, unseeing, and was quickly approached by black-garbed Valdorio, slouching and pale.

"Good day, sir!" the dark man exclaimed.

"Indeed, good day, sir!" Il Capitano replied with a flourish and bow.

"Was that not you that came in by sea? As grand a ship as yours, I've not seen."

"Aye, and long have I been upon it. But it is home at last to hearth and happiness."

"A happiness I will share!" the dark man cried, clapping the other on the shoulder. "For I intend to marry!"

"As do I!" came Capitano's boisterous laughter. "What luck-I will buy you a drink, stranger, for we share such good fortune. Is she lovely?"

"By all accounts, the loveliest!"

"With a smile that melts ice?"

"Like the summer sun!"

"And eyes that can warm your soul?"

"To the cockles, my friend."

"And her voice?"

"Like music to hear. If only you could know her, you would see that no other woman comes close!"

"To love!"

"To love!"

And the two drank deeply from cups given them by Murrone. The scene froze again as the narrator stepped forward with a confused expression on his face.

"And who is _this_ gentleman?" he asked of the audience with a sweep of open palms. "So thin and sallow with a smile that charms. Do not be deceived! This man so equally in love as our gallant hero is none other than our villain: the corrupt, the licentious, that blackest serpent of them all-Valdorio!"

Murrone swept aside and Capitano with him, leaving Valdorio in the market with a still perusing Calabria. From off to the side, Bella sauntered onto the stage dressed in a velvet gown of deepest red with a low collar and a wooden staff in her hand. She approached the visibly pining Valdorio.

"Why does Messere blink so? Is the sun too bright? The dust too thick?"

"Nay, it is with longing that I blink, unable to believe my eyes though they see so clearly."

"What wonder has thus entranced you?"

"None but she." Yearning arms reached out to the oblivious object of his affections. "I would marry her this very day. But...I have not yet asked for her hand."

"Nor could you. The lady belongs to another."

"What!" Valdorio spun on La Patrista.

The lady casually shrugged with with an exaggerated conspiratorial grin on her face. "Have you not heard? No, no, you have only recently come to this city. Her hand is promised to Il Capitano, a hero of the wars and long overdue to return."

"A hero." Valdorio made to spit in disgust.

"His ship lies at harbor," La Patrista went on with a broad gesture. "If he were on it, I can assure you that he will take up residence once more in his manor and claim his bride before the day is out."

"Is he a tall gentleman?"

"Indeed, a grand figure of a man."

"Does he have a gift for laughter?"

"Of a charming sort."

"And eyes that glint with a particular mystery?"

La Patrista sighed, "A lady could lose herself in those eyes…."

"I believe I have met this man," Valdorio grumbled as he set to pacing, his hands locked behind his back. "I must be rid of him if I am ever to have fair Calabria as my own."

"In that, I can help you." The woman peered about her before slipping Valdorio a tiny glass vial. "See that Il Capitano drinks of this before he is able to make his presence truly known. Then find me again. I promise you, the lady shall be yours!"

The market cleared and a tavern took its place. Valdorio approached a table where Il Capitano drank alone. In pantomime the scene played out, the gentlemen seeming to build a friendship even as Valdorio slipped the unwitting hero a drink laced with La Patrista's potion. In a seeming drunken stupor, they left the tavern together, but Capitano did not make it very far. Gloating over the prone form lying upon the ground, Valdorio puffed himself up with pride and left the stage.

Il Capitano did not move. Moments later, La Patrista crept into view shrouded in the darkness of a cloak. She held out her staff toward the unconscious man and chanted:

"Eyes of lizards, ears of swine,  
Demon-tainted soul divine,  
Fates of yours and mine entwine,  
By my power, thou art mine!"

Colored smoke burst from the end of the staff, and a spellbound Capitano lurched to his feet with the awkwardness of a marionette. He stood still in a listless slouch, eyes unseeing, as La Patrista circled him.

"Such a figure of a man!" she exclaimed. "And that you shall keep. But your name, you lose. Your memories, you lose. You lose all but this: your love of music. Get you to a tavern...sing for your supper. And by the end of this night, Il Capitano will be no more, replaced by a common busker." She kissed his cheek and, with a cackle, she vanished.

The curtains swung closed with a billow of air, concealing the ensorceled Capitano as Murrone came striding forth once more.

"Alas, such folly," he cried, touching a hand dramatically to his brow, "for our hero to fall victim to this! His memories, his property, his bride-all denied him. A curse! A ruse! The licentious Valdorio seeks claim of the lovely Calabria, and the witch gladly agreed to the plot. And what will become of our fair damsel?"

Murrone stepped aside as the scene changed behind him. The bustling marketplace returned with Calabria about her shopping. Valdorio lurked about the edges, making his raucous boasts to any and all. He was trying desperately hard in order to impress the fair maid, but she failed to display any interest of her own. Capitano as Cyrano then appeared on stage, his red doublet traded for yellow and a lute in his hands for the sweet making of music. La Patrista pursued him with the same vigor Valdorio directed at Calabria, but when Cyrano's eyes fell upon the loveliness of Calabria, his love for her was born anew. His songs became ballads of love, and Patrista, in her ignorance, was convinced he was singing for her. Rashly, the witch declared her affections to which Cyrano cut off his serenade to address her in his ire.

"Madam, were you the very sun in the sky made flesh, I could never love you."

La Patrista fled the stage in a shriek of rage, and Cyrano returned to his music-making. Though he followed Calabria about the market, she gave him no heed. It was as though she could neither see nor hear him, and it caused his music to eventually take on a melancholy quality to reflect the sadness in his heart.

Valdorio took that opportunity to sweep in, emboldened by the scene. He showered Calabria with compliments on her beauty, anecdotes to display his feigned intelligence, a jingle of the purse at his belt as he paid for all her shopping to show how generous he was with his wealth. At last, he confessed his love, collapsing to one knee to take her hand and kiss it with ardor.

Calabria snatched it away sharply. "My lord is kind, but this hand belongs to Il Capitano, a hero destined to return home now that the war is over."

"How unfortunate that you do not know," Valdorio replied as he rose. He was undeterred, and the smirk on his lips made that clear to the audience. "The news just arrived today. Il Capitano's ship has returned, but he was not upon it. Fallen to the enemy is he, having met his doom in battle at sea. I have here the admiral's writ." He brought a folded letter from his belt and showed it to her.

Calabria read the news and wept. All else forgotten, she fled the market, the scheming Valdorio, and the crestfallen Cyrano.

"Tragedy," Murrone intoned as the curtain swept closed. "Such a tragedy to befall our lovers. Capitano, cursed to be Cyrano, loves a lady who cannot know he exists. That lady believes that what she loves more than her own life lies dead at the bottom of the sea. She flees to find peace at the home of relatives while each of her potential paramours plots how best to win her."

A finger alongside his nose, Murrone slowly stepped backward as the curtain opened once more. Cyrano was seated upon stone at a crossroads, and Murrone slung onto his back a large sack that clanged with pots and pans and sundry. His back hunched, his face scrunched, he took on the role of a wandering tinker and thus approached the ensorceled hero.

"Good day, messire!" he called out gaily.

"Indeed, it is not."

"How can it not be? The sun shines! The war is won! Business is best at the coast, and I find I have music to carry me there!"

"I fear my music will put no joy in your step. My heart has broken, and there is only one who might mend it."

"A lady of such loveliness?"

"As only the Maker can describe."

"My hands might mend pots, but for the price of a lively song, I might yet be of service bringing joy back to your heart. Where is this lady of loveliness?"

"Gone to a house by the sea and there to watch for a lost love. And why should I follow? I could not compete with such a one as Il Capitano-alive or dead. And even if I could, she would not hear me."

Murrone stood there with a knowing look, a finger tapping against his chin as he thought and thought and, at last, contrived a solution.

"Then I shall give her your words," the tinker said brightly. "I will let her know what sweet song awaits her if she could but hear you. Together, we shall defeat her deafness."

A bargain struck, the two make for the house Calabria has fled to for sanctuary. Cyrano stood beneath her window and sang songs of love and longing, but she still did not hear. She did not even turn to look. Her eyes remained fixed into the distance as she gazed sadly out to sea. Murrone began to pass along messages, claiming that he had such a master as would seek the lady's hand, would give her nothing but joy, and care for her as the greatest of men should. That drew her attention. She looked down into the garden beneath her bower window to smile at the tinker. She plucked a flower that had grown amidst the ivy clinging to gray stone and tossed it down to him.

"For your master and your trouble," she called to him with a sadness in her voice that her face would not show, "but I cannot love one who will not speak for himself, not when my Il Capitano had wooed me without a single soul to speak on his behalf."

Cyrano was beside himself with heartbreak. He set his lute aside and sat upon the ground, head clutched between his hands even as he cried out such words of impassioned affection. He knew she would not hear them, some strange force between them keeping them ever in separate worlds.

It was then that Valdorio reappeared. He was dressed even more grandly and carrying himself with exaggerated pride. He was invited in for dinner as the household was about to eat, and he took that opportunity to once more press his suit. Sadness still in every word, Calabria eventually gave her consent, all hope in Il Capitano's return shattered by the news from abroad that Valdorio brought with him.

Cyrano and Murrone heard the entire exchange from outside the window, and the cursed hero could not longer stand it. He pleaded with the tinker to somehow intervene.

"If there is anything you can do, kindest friend, you must stop this. If she cannot be mine, I will be at peace if she would at least not belong to this braggart and boaster, this swine among men who fashions himself important. I do not trust the way he looks at her. Neither to I trust the sweetness of his words."

"With a kiss from the lady, I would end this nightmare," the tinker replied, standing up a little straighter and snapping his fingers. There was a spark, a puff of smoke, enough to reveal that he, too, had some skill of magic previously unrevealed. "This villain must learn that the bonds of love cannot be cut-not with a curse and not with death."

Murrone presented himself to the household at dinner, claiming to be a teller of stories. He regales them all with the tale of Cyrano, a masked hero who had accomplished many great things through wit and song from the plains of Orlais to the mountains of Rivain. But for all this, the tinker claimed mysteriously, not a one knew who this man was. Most could not even claim to have seen him, but there were none who could deny that he existed.

"But who is this Cyrano?" Calabria asked with curiosity, her imagination sparked by tales of such daring that only her Il Capitano could have embarked upon. "And why does he hide his face behind a mask? Is he a warrior or a poet? Is he a bandit or a prince? Is he a lover as is the soul's wont, or is he heartless and cruel? Does anyone know?"

"For a kiss, my lady, I will tell you."

Amused at the spectacle, Valdorio allowed his young betrothed to give the tinker a kiss on the cheek in exchange for such an entertaining secret. The moment her lips touched the weathered skin, her eyes were opened and her ears could hear a song of such sorrow and longing coming from somewhere outside. The voice that joined the lute's melody was immediately familiar, and she rushed outside.

"Capitano!" she cried when she reached Cyrano where he stood in the middle of the audience. Seats had been divided around a central aisle for this very purpose, and scores of heads turned toward the action as it was carefully lighted by other cast members who wore dark costumes to insinuate that they should be invisible. "Capitano, my love!"

Calabria did not give her love any time to react. With enthusiasm that Solona had opened her own heart to perfect, she took Cyrano's face in her hands and kissed him with the passion of a love long nurtured. The audience exploded into applause as the shadowed cast removed the yellow doublet to reveal the scarlet of Il Capitano, signalling the breaking of the terrible curse upon him. The bard wrapped his love in his arms as the drama of the stage became intermingled with reality, and it was only the angry shouting of Valdorio that snapped the pair fully back into character.

"You are too late!" the man in black cried as he stood at the fore of the stage with his sword drawn in challenge. "The lady has pledged herself to me!"

"It was a trick and a lie!" Il Capitano returned as he gently moved Calabria behind him. His own sword was drawn with the song of live steel, and he whipped it about-careful to avoid those seated about him-that it might catch the light on his way back to the stage. "You cannot claim that which had already been given freely to another. Your treachery ends now!"

And they fought. Long hours had been spent in training Rowan to have skill enough to portray the rapidity and fierceness of a real Antivan duel, and this carried the two of them about the fringe of the great hall. The great windows were opened to allow in the light, and torches were lit in turn to make due for the rest. The whole of the audience stood to get a better look at what was happening, breaths caught in anticipation and eyes wide with excitement. Cyrano and Rowan called out barbed insults at one another that were meant to be both sharp and humorous, keeping in line with the lightheartedness of the _commedia_ while still maintaining the necessary grit. When they returned to the front of the hall and alighted upon the stage once more, Cyrano lunged one final time and made as if to pierce his opponent through the heart.

"Curse it!" came the anguished cry, "I've been stabbed!"

And Valdorio, the villain, fell down dead.

Il Capitano turned back out to the sea of faces and dropped his sword. His arms opened wide, and his face was lit with the smile of accomplishment. Calabria ran forward from where she still stood in the crowd and leaped into her lover's arms to lose herself in a kiss once more. The curtain closed before them and Murrone spun his way back in front of it. The roar of wild applause died down as he held his hands aloft.

"And so the curse was broken!" he announced. "Our hero and his lady were reunited to live out their lives in happiness. A wickedness was vanquished, never to plague them again." He paused, bend forward and swept one hand out before him with the index finger raised to draw attention to a very important and singular point. "But what of La Patrista-that witch, that menace? Where has she gone and what fate was she destined to meet? Did she fall foul of a dragon? Did a curse of her own come back to haunt her? Did our Il Capitano seek her out in vengeance granting a fate far worse than death? That, my dear friends...is a tale for another day."


	18. Masque

The thunder of the crowd was deafening. Fereldans who had thought they'd forgotten what merriment was cheered and whistled and clapped their hands for the spectacle that had been given them. Cyrano brought his makeshift troupe forward to receive the accolades, and, despite his being the titular character of the production, he bowed aside to usher Murrone forward to the enthusiastic praise that was due such a talented narrator.

The bard's eyes scanned the crowd now that the lighting let him see more clearly. The visiting Antivans appeared to enjoy the play in equal measure, though their display of it was significantly more controlled. A _commedia_ was no new thing to them, but they certainly had an appreciation for talent-particularly where none was expected. Rudolfo di Malogna's face was all smiles as he stood with the rest, palms pounding together above layered lace cuffs. Ines' reaction was far more subdued. Pale hands daintily clapped as dark eyes appeared to look at nothing. Her focus was somewhere in the middle distance, lost between her place near di Malogna and the king and the stage.

Excited voices bombarded him when the troupe retreated to their dressing room. Everyone was gushing about their apparent success, congratulating each other in turn as they hurried to get out of costume and into more appropriate attire for the feasting and revels that would follow. Rowan and his fellow musicians changed into their livery and picked up their instruments, destined to be entertainment for the remainder of the evening. Bella, who had been expecting to help out in the kitchens when all was said and done, had to rush to find something amongst what Solona had brought from the Orlesian stash when she suddenly found herself invited to dine with the visiting Grey Wardens.

Only Cyrano remained as he was. He sat at a vanity, staring at his masked reflection in the mirror, puzzling to himself on whether or not his play had left any desired effect on the visitors or if he were being played just as expertly. The absent expression on the part of Ines could have had any number of sources, and di Malogna could have been an ignorant buffoon who didn't recognize satire when he saw it. He removed the broad-brimmed hat from his head and met the dark eyes of his reflection as he combed fingers through the flattened waves of his hair. Had he changed so much? Despite his age, gray had yet to touch a single strand of ebony on his head. He recalled the portrait Ratham had taken from _La Veridad_. The only difference between that man and the reflection that gazed back at him, now, was a pointed sprout of beard from his chin.

A mask that merely covered his eyebrows and cheekbones would not have fooled a lady who had for so long known his face, his voice, the proud square of his shoulders.

Cyrano snatched his hat back up and replaced it upon his head. He angled the brim forward just enough to hide his face in conversation if he so wished, if only from the side. With a sweep of his short cape, he strode from the dressing room and into the celebrating masses.

He did not yet have the upper hand in this charade.

The unexpectedly large number of guests had forced the feasting and dancing to take place outside in the courtyard. Servants had rushed all afternoon to move tables from the great hall into formation while leaving a large enough space in the middle of it all for revellers who were, at that very moment, dancing one of the lively circle dances Fereldans favored best. The ladies made up an inner circle of brightly colored gowns while the men of equally vibrant livery comprised the outer ring. They wove in and out and around one another to the quick pace of one of Rowan's more popular reels, and Cyrano watched with a passing interest as the entire dance was conducted without one lady even so much as touching the hand of a gentleman.

The ladies took each other's hands surely, especially when the rings came back together and began spinning in different directions. A few of the dancers were undeniably Antivan, most of them gentlemen, and on more than one occasion were they left confused as to why their partners refused the proffered appendages. Cyrano chuckled and shook his head. For a country whose history was peppered with rebellion, its culture stubbornly insisted on maintaining a modest bent. That could surely change.

Cyrano made his way through the crowd over to where Rowan and the others played. After two more reels, the lutist gladly handed over his instrument for a chance at a rest and a glass of wine. He had not yet had a moment to simply breathe since he set foot on stage as Valdorio, and the weariness was affecting his fingers. Cyrano gave brief instructions to the rest of the group and settled himself upon the abandoned stool.

Guests looked to the minstrels as they waited for the next song to begin, and expressions from most were quizzical when Cyrano began plucking out a haunting _romanza_ of emphatic melody hidden amidst arpeggios. His fingers moved with an effortless skill through the complex sound that was, at its core, Antivan. From there, he segued out of the short piece and into something that the Antivans knew how to dance to, the visitors known for their robust way of life grateful to have a reason to stop standing at the fringes. A lively tune resounded from the lute in his hands as Cyrano threw himself into his art. His eyes, meanwhile, were ever watchful even as it appeared that he focused solely on gut strings bound in silver.

Ines stared at him with a particular lack of subtlety. She sat with Rudolfo near the king and Warden-Commander (who had made the ultimate sacrifice and deigned to wear a flattering gown of emerald silk) as they played the genteel hosts and-at least on the part of Rudolfo-the charmed guest. When he changed songs again, this time to a _bolero_ popular in Rialto, he caught her lift a hand to motion over a servant. It was an elf girl with pale hair dressed in a gown grand enough to belong to a Fereldan noblewoman, and she bowed low so that her ear would be near enough her lady's without sound traveling or lips being read. There was a shallow nod, a curtsey, and the girl walked over to the musicians.

"If it pleases you, _signore_ ," she said lowly without even bothering to wait for Cyrano to finish, "my lady would have the honor of making your acquaintance."

"It is your lady that honors me," came the reply without his fingers missing a note. He deftly finished the song to polite applause before passing the lute back to Rowan. Both sides of the audience satisfied for the moment, Cyrano followed the elvhen servant back in the direction of her mistress.

The nonchalant facade he prayed he wore never felt like such a lie. His heart pounded with a conflict of emotions, of apprehension, of seething rage, of the smallest hope that the whole of the treachery was a passing nightmare and nothing more. Ines stood as he approached, and di Malogna and his hosts quickly followed suit. They were, at first, curious as to Ines' sudden action, but Alistair, to his credit, recovered quickly.

"And here is the man of the hour," the King of Ferelden commented brightly with a smile and gesture. "Signore di Malogna, Duchessa, if I might present Master Cyrano Rideri come to us from Orlais."

Cyrano bowed grandly, sweeping his hat from his head with one hand and his cape to the side with the other. One long leg extended forward, and he brought his nose so low that it nearly touched his knee. Even from that lowly position, he could hear di Malogna scoff just a little.

"Orlais? Such an Antivan name to be from Orlais."

"Indeed, I am quite Antivan," came Cyrano's trite and smirking reply as he straightened, replacing the hat upon his head with a jaunty air. "But my best performances have been in Orlais. Why, the Empress herself has often required my...services."

The last was said against the back of Ines' hand as he raised it to his lips to kiss. It was polite. It was expected. And, by the Maker, he would use that simple gesture to the absolute best advantage possible. He felt a trembling in her fingers as his breath rushed across her knuckles, and the lady quickly snatched her hand away. Cyrano smiled apologetically over his own hand as it still hung in the air before turning to more properly address di Malogna.

"I have found myself in Ferelden quite unexpectedly on my way home to Antiva, which has worked well for everyone involved, if I do say so."

"It has!" Alistair affirmed. "Master Rideri was most willing to help with this event once he learned of it."

"And what part of Antiva are you from?" Rudolfo asked, an odd glint in his eyes. He stole a glance at Ines that he likely thought would go unnoticed. "Surely, you are still eager to return home."

Cyrano allowed himself a laugh. "If for nothing else than to be away from the smell of dog! I call your own Rialto home, though I have not been there in some years. The court of the Empress Selene is not one known to relinquish talent easily."

"You speak highly of yourself, bard." It was Ines that time. Her voice was soft yet strong enough to be heard by all over the music.

"What good would I be if I spoke poorly?" he quipped in return. "My greatest asset is my ability to speak and speak well, and so I must lest I starve. Surely you would not have me starve, _mi duchessa_. Such would be unspeakable cruelty."

Ines' mouth opened as if to reply, but no sound came forth. Her black eyes searched his face, darting back and forth in a futile search for whatever she hoped to find there. The mask could not hide the crinkle of his eyes as he smiled, that uneven quirk as the left side of his mouth smiled more strongly than the right. Cyrano could not read minds, but he was fairly certain that, in that moment, his former betrothed had not considered how finally facing him would affect _her_. Her control over him had always been from a distance. This was quite different as he stood a close yet acceptable distance from her, and she was forced to see those eyes she had known since childhood.

As for Cyrano himself, his blood continued to race. Sorrow and loathing warred within him as the devoted child Ines had once been clashed with the obsessed maleficar she had become. The bard could not see her arms, covered as they were in layers of silk and satin and lace, but he wagered they were covered in nearly as many scars as those of Aleix. The demon had betrayed her. There was no taking it back. But the practiced innocence of her face was determined to confound him.

There was a change in the music behind them that elicited an excited whoop from the crowd of Fereldan dancers. Rowan played a jaunty bit of introduction that slowed and paused just long enough to give time for those who wished to dance the chance to find partners and form columns in that open space of courtyard.

"If the _signore_ will pardon me," Cyrano said with a broad smile and bow of the head to di Malogna and a hand extended to Ines, "I would be most honored if the lady would join me in a dance."

"I do not...know the steps," was Ines' slow and uncertain reply.

"It's simple enough, Duchessa, I assure you." Alistair gave her an encouraging wink as he took the Warden-Commander by the arm to lead her to the floor. "There's not a one of us here that won't help you learn!"

"I...I don't think…."

"Oh, come, come, Duchessa!" Cyrano grabbed up Ines' hand and lured her to the floor where she came to a stop beside Kallian and he beside the king. "It's the Remigold. A lady has not _lived_ until she has danced the Remigold!"

It was only seconds later when the music started up properly. After a count of four and in time with the drums and lute, the entire row of men moved forward to close the space between themselves and the ladies, stamped twice, turned, and bowed as they stepped backward into their original positions. A flute and harp echoed, and it was to these that the ladies answered with two steps forward, a full turn, and an elegant sweep backward into position. Cyrano watched with particular amusement as Ines intently followed the Warden-Commander's every move with the wide eyes of someone finding themselves in an awkward position.

Step, kick, step, kick, stomp, stomp, turn-instead of facing each other, the two rows were now side by side, the men holding out their right hands and the ladies taking them. For four counts of eight, everyone moved in and out and around, couples forming small groups that, if it could be seen from above, resembled a collection of six-pointed stars. When they came back to their original positions, the cycle of the dance began again.

"Why, Duchessa, you blush," Cyrano commented when they took hands again. His words merely made her cheeks deepen in color. Good. The more he could keep her off-guard, the more confident he would be. It was a necessity just then. His eyes continued to scan the crowd throughout the dance, looking for any sign of Aleix or Solona, the only two who could possibly counter magic if it suddenly came to that. There was no sign of either.

"It is merely the exertion," Ines returned, swallowing down her awkwardness. The blush remained, but her eyes were steady, her expression no longer fearful. She had learned the steps of the Remigold by this point, making it one less thing her mind had to focus on.

"I would have hoped it to be my company. Was it not you that wished to be introduced? And so, here I am, the humble servant of _mi duchessa_ if that is your wish. Your eyes sing of starlight, and your beauty is more radiant than the moon."

He ignored Kallian's bemused expression as she passed him in another weave. Cyrano couldn't fault her. Flirting with Ines had not exactly been part of the plan. However, not much had been. The _commedia_ , the masque, the pretense of generosity, it was all meant to be bait to get the Crows to reveal themselves, to force Ines and Rudolfo to expose their own plot that they might be subject to Fereldan justice rather than Cyrano's personal quest for vengeance. One could not publicly accuse a lady without proof. They were still in need of that proof.

"Surely you flatter, master bard," came the tight reply. Ines would not look at him, now. Her eyes were lowered, but he could see the faint trace of fretting upon her brow.

"I speak only the truth as I see it. Cyrano Rideri might be a master storyteller, but he is never a teller of lies."

Her gaze returned to his, then. Solid, thoughtful, those dark eyes tried to burrow their way beneath his mask to fully realize the face beneath.

"Then answer me this: have we met before? Your name is familiar to me."

"There are many who wear this name. Any _commedia_ troupe worthy of the title has its own Cyrano."

"And, yet, I know your voice. I have seen your smile."

"Ah, then perhaps you have seen me perform before. Although, I can promise you, _mi duchessa_ , that I would have remembered seeing you if ever I had. An audience of ten thousand faces could not have hidden you."

Alistair (accidentally on purpose) elbowed Cyrano in the ribs next they came to stand side-by-side. "I hope you know what you're doing," was hissed out the corner of his mouth.

"Of course," Cyrano replied through a tight smile as they moved through the first steps of the cycle again. "Have you never scorned a lady before?"

"No."

"Then pay attention, Your Majesty." The bard's eyes once more scanned the crowd for any sign of Aleix or Solona. Still nothing, which only made him slightly nervous at this point. Nathaniel, Emilio, and the others were in their own appointed positions and gave him no signal that anything was amiss. "You'll learn a great deal before the end."

The Remigold progressed through two more cycles before it was finished, and, in that time, Ines had managed to prise nothing out of Cyrano. The bard was intent to make her think that her curse-or some part of it-still held. Though it would have been obvious (according to Aleix) that the demon no longer had a presence, there never would have been a guarantee that memories would have returned. If a side-effect had been that Cyrano forgot everything of who he had been, he would throw that freely back into Ines' face until she could bear it no longer. It was a torture of her own making, and she would suffer it as _he_ had suffered it until one of them finally broke from the strain.

And Cyrano had already determined that he would never again be the one who was broken.

It turned out that Rowan did know a few songs and dances from outside of Ferelden and followed up the Remigold with the Treviso Tarantella. It was a feverish circle dance that Fereldans and Antivans both could take to with relish, circles that broke off into rows and then partners, terminating in couples spinning about in each other's arms before returning to the whole. This dance flowed directly into another, a partner dance that the Antivans-drunk on wine and good cheer-gladly taught to their Fereldan hosts.

Cyrano caught sight of Rudolfo glaring daggers at him over the rim of a goblet from where the Prince continued to sit at the high table. Hatred radiated outward, striking the bard even from this distance, and though Cyrano had his suspicions as to why, he couldn't quite fathom the ferocity with which it came. He was certainly a threat to the usurper for simply being alive, but it wasn't until he bothered to focus on Ines' face as she beamed up at him that he began to understand.

There was more than dirty politics at work here. There was a conflict of intent. At some point in their partnership, if even just that day, the aims of Rudolfo and Ines quite possibly diverged. And, regardless of what direction they now took a turn, Cyrano was in an even more precarious position, like dancing upon the edge of a knife, and he would have one new factor to consider. It was a deadly development to be dealing with when playing things by ear as he was.

When part of the solution presented itself, even Cyrano was not ready for it. Rowan's song ended but did not immediately pick up into another. At first, Cyrano thought the lutist required another break, but when he turned to check, he saw Rowan's attention fixed at a certain point above everyone's head. The other minstrels followed his gaze, and with some surprise, Cyrano realized that a hush had fallen over the entire crowd with all eventually turning to look and see whatever it was.

Cyrano followed suit and suddenly found himself trying desperately not to swallow his own tongue in surprise. At the top of the stairs leading from the great hall stood Solona in a gown that was not at all the one she had initially chosen for the masque. Cyrano had been looking for her to appear in a gown of blue and gold, something reminiscent of her rôle as Calabria as they had planned. What he saw instead was a vision of Orlesian artistry. She wore a gown whose body was of a lilac satin covered in wispy, weightless layers of white gossamer. The bodice was cinched by a latticework of lacings with skirts that belled elegantly to the ground. The collar was off the shoulder, and the sleeves had no particular form of their own. Instead, they draped her arm and hung nearly to the floor as if they were the very wings of a spirit of mercy come to them from the distant Fade. Solona's face was masked behind a butterfly form of lace and jewels, and her hair was piled atop her head in loose ringlet curls pinned in place and crested by an intricate headpiece of amethyst and the delicate, fragrant blossoms of Andraste's Grace.

Aleix stood at her side, garbed in the Circle robes of a senior enchanter and looking every inch the proud guardian. He followed a few steps behind as Solona descended to the floor. She was trying desperately not to gnaw at her bottom lip, knowing that she had to hide how very nervous she was. Her eyes connected with Cyrano's, and he walked over to bow grandly before her without even realizing that he left Ines standing alone in the middle of the entranced crowd. Somewhere behind him, Alistair was making the polite announcement that here was the Comtesse du Brac, come as proof of alliance with Orlais that it was not only the aid of Grey Wardens that Ferelden could count on in the future.

The celebration resumed. Music picked up once more as did a great deal of conversation of happier politics in the days to come. Several Fereldan nobles came to meet the Comtesse, and even those that knew her as Solona the Grey Warden mage failed to see through the elaborate disguise that Aleix had clearly played a large part in. Cyrano never left her side. He ensured that she was introduced to everyone that was anyone, especially the visiting Antivans. Rudolfo and Ines both extended greetings of a strained politeness with the latter barely concealing the poison of jealousy from her tone.

When the meal was called at last, Cyrano escorted Solona to her seat beside the Warden-Commander before making to sit at the young mage's left. As soon as he moved to sit upon the cushioned bench, Rudolfo spoke up over the rim of his goblet from opposite the king.

"I did not know it was Fereldan custom to allow minstrels and fools a seat at the high table, Your Majesty."

Cyrano froze in place. His eyes shot up to connect with di Malogna's glare, and the Prince of Rialto smirked sourly in return.

"If this truly is your custom," the Antivan went on, apparently taking some pleasure in the fact he had elicited a response from Cyrano, "I beg your forgiveness that I ask that he be removed. He has insulted the Duchessa and is not worthy of her presence."

_Perfect_. Cyrano had to do his best to keep the satisfaction from showing on his face. Ines would not look at him, and the stiff and haughty way she sat in her chair, turned ever so slightly so that she wouldn't have to be confronted directly with Solona, either, betrayed that the Orlesian woman's presence alone was nearly enough to have the desired effect. If Cyrano had caught Solona up right then to kiss her, that would have likely been the end of it. Ines would explode; Rudolfo would defend her; and an otherwise joyous occasion would terminate in blood and tears.

No matter how cruel Cyrano wished to be to either or both of his prime antagonists, he could not bring himself to hurt the king or Warden-Commander in such a way. It would have been thoughtless and a definite trigger for Antiva to take its hostilities, which had thus far remained confined to its own borders, and redirect all of it across the narrow Waking Sea. For all its rugged charm, Ferelden would not survive such an onslaught. Not so soon after a Blight and not against entire armies of Crows.

"Perhaps a song, if my voice would not further offend," Cyrano suggested at last as a helpful nudge to Alistair. It was obvious in the young man's face that he was trying desperately to find a way to diffuse the situation while keenly aware that a highly trained assassin and blood mage were both staring at him from across the table. Diplomacy and self-preservation were both evident in the uncertain line of his mouth.

"I believe that would be best, Master Rideri," Alistair replied, collecting himself and putting on his warmest smile.

"Indeed." Rudolfo's sneer was particularly venomous as it followed Cyrano away from his seat and the table entirely. "Go and sing for your supper, _bard_."

_As you would have it,_ Cyrano mused to himself as he ordered his Orlesian lute brought to him from the stage. _No more subtleties. No more wit and banter. I know you, Rudolfo di Malogna, and the time has come to remind you of who_ I _am._

He stopped briefly to leave instructions with Rowan and the other musicians. There was a parody he and the lutist had concocted while exhausted from rehearsals and drunk on wine. The would sing it. The crowd would love it. And, if they could get it just right, Rudolfo would try to kill him over it.

"Are you sure this is wise?" Rowan whispered as Cyrano tuned his lute. "Does the king know?"

"Give Nathaniel the signal," was the bard's only reply as he turned to make his way to the center of the floor. That was the best he could do. The others knew their parts. This ruse had carried on long enough, and this was the only way Cyrano could think to set the spark while leaving the King of Ferelden blameless. The exchange of insults would end here, preferably in a duel, and if Crows honored no other laws, they honored the rules of engagement.

Cyrano, armed only as he was with a lute and a song, prayed that he had not underestimated his opponent...or overestimated himself. He softly plucked a single note, just enough to hold the tune, before his clear tenor rang through the courtyard.

_In the great city port of Rialto,_  
A man of high standing was I.  
Oh, many the pirate lord followed me  
In that realm between sea and sky.

_But a sad misfortune came over me,_  
Which caused me to flee by the tide,  
Far away from sweet, cut-throat Antiva,  
Betrayed by the Mabari Bride.

_Her eyes, they shone like silver._  
I thought her the Empress Orlais.  
And behind her there pranced a mabari  
Always willing, so willing, to play.

Rowan and the others joined in at that, fleshing out the song one instrument at a time. Where the patrons of the Warden's Rest had thrown themselves into merrymaking the first time Cyrano had performed the original Mabari Bride for them, the crowd here seemed to hold their breaths instead. The tempo was as quick as it should have been, the minstrels all-smiles and animated voices as each chorus was sung in unison. It was the verses that threw them.

Cyrano, himself, couldn't be bothered to note how his lyrics affected any but the usurper of his city and the woman whose treachery had broken his heart if not his will. The _commedia_ had merely insinuated. He would not be so civil this time.

Verse after verse delved deeper and deeper into the story, the chain of events that had brought them all here to this very moment. The part that Cyrano relished the most was how purple Rudolfo's face became when a particular stanza made it abundantly clear that _he_ was the mabari. To an Antivan, there was no greater insult. Signals must have been given all over the place that the bard neglected to see, for there was movement all about him as Crows moved into position. Cyrano never once took his eyes of Rudolfo's, the two of them staring each other down from across a span of twenty paces.

By the time they reached the final verse, Rudolfo di Malogna had heard quite enough. He leaped to his feet so quickly that his chair went tumbling backward, the _crack_ of the wood hitting the stone floor so jarring that even Cyrano abruptly fell silent in response. At first, the nobleman said nothing. He merely stood there at his place at the high table and glowered balefully at the lone bard standing in the middle of the courtyard whose own expression was irritatingly whimsical.

"Were you any other man," Rudolfo growled, fingering the pair of doeskin gloves he had tucked into his belt, "I would say that your persistence is commendable. As it is, you are merely a fool that has taken several steps too far."

"If it is several steps," Cyrano returned with a small, wry grin as he plucked out a few soft arpeggios, "perhaps, in your boundless wisdom, you should have stopped me sooner."

The next sound to come out of di Malogna's mouth was anything but intelligible. He ripped the gloves from his belt and threw them to the floor with a vengeful finality. "I invoke challenge, _cazzo indegno_ , and you will pay for this insolence."

"Now, I don't think-"

Rudolfo spun on Alistair with a cold fury in his eyes. "And _you_ will not interfere if you value your kingdom. This is an Antivan matter." He drew his sword with the swift purpose of one long trained as a soldier, turned back to the crowd, and lifted the blade above his head. "Crows! _Avante_!"


	19. The Seleny Switch

Discretion has always been the better part of valor. Cyrano knew this. For any other man who suddenly found himself ringed by no fewer than a dozen armed men, two of which he recognized (ah, Emilio, it would have to be you, wouldn't it?), surrendering and bowing out with grace would have been an ideal move. But Cyrano was the King of Bards and Bard of Kings, and a bard had every weapon he could ever need so long as he was still possessed of his wits. This was also not the first time in his life he had been hopelessly surrounded. He risked a glance up to the gallery, catching the eye of Nathaniel who had his bow drawn tight and ready to loose an arrow. Cyrano winked, but the Warden refused to stand down.

"Alas, you have given me no choice," Cyrano announced, taking his lute and holding it out to the Crow nearest to him. The man blinked at him, confused, before the bard let out an exasperated sigh. "I understand that I am about to die, but kindly have respect for the instrument."

The Crow's eyes narrowed warily, but he reached out with his free hand to snatch the neck of the lute while never lowering the short sword he had pointed at Cyrano's throat. The instrument was quickly rescued by a nervous Rowan who then shuffled all of his fellow musicians far out of the way. Or he tried to. There was not a man among them who wanted to abandon Cyrano to such a fate, and so they lingered, close at hand but out of a sword's reach until such a time as they could be useful, if that time ever came.

Cyrano glanced once more at Emilio. The younger man's face was a wall of stony resolve as he stood poised with both long blade and dirk at the ready. There was a brief narrowing of his eyes...not a blink or a glare but a twitch that would have been very easy to miss. Cyrano cast his gaze around to the others before returning to Emilio, and the tiny movement came again. The bard smiled, grim with understanding.

_You start with nothing but your wits-no weapons and no allies._

The object was to prevail. He looked back up at Nathaniel from beneath the shadow of his broad-brimmed hat and moved his left arm so that it was beneath the folds of his short cloak.

 _You wanted to see it, my young Warden. You may have that chance, yet_.

And without giving any of the Crows the chance to anticipate him, Cyrano flung out his cape and wrapped it about that short blade so aimed at him. A flick of the wrist, a swift jerk from the elbow, and the blade was wrenched from the careless grip. Cyrano's right hand flew beneath his cape to grab the hilt of the sword before it even had a chance to hit the ground, and he fell to one knee to block the wave of blows that came at him all at once.

He had to be his nimblest at this stage of the game. Two of these men he had trained himself. They knew most of his tricks and would be able to spot them amidst the chaos. But they didn't know _all_ , and that was the only thing Cyrano really had going for him. Emilio had given his signal that he, at least, was still loyal. He would pull back until the time came, but Cyrano could not wait for that moment to arrive. He tossed his hat away to let him keep a better view, and ducked and spun within the confines of his steel cage. Every move was in defense with cape just as useful as his stolen sword. And that sword was far less than ideal. It was keen but had no reach, suitable for stabbing at close range and little else.

As he moved, Cyrano eyed up each and every weapon being used against him, gritting his teeth at the jarring sensation that carried through his arm every time Crow blades connected with his own. He kicked out at a few of the men near him, his leg sweeping out low and behind him in an attempt to trip them. The other man he knew to be a Wolf, a young man named Bartolomeo, let himself be caught, falling backwards as his longsword appeared to be carelessly released into the air in his shock. Cyrano reached out to catch it, fingers gripping the tang just below the blade.

Both of his arms moved in a swift and vicious arc out to the sides. Crows leaped backward in defense, giving Cyrano just enough time to get a better handle on the longsword. It was in his left hand, but he had long ago learned to not let that be a handicap. There was a grunt behind him, a strangled gurgle, and suddenly, the Wolf he had tripped stood with him back-to-back with a new longsword and a dagger to go with it.

"You will not fall, my Prince," Bartolomeo said lowly as the two eyed up their opponents who were, likewise, adjusting strategy for this turn of events. They had spread themselves out and added more to their number, Crows that had remained disguised amidst the revelers. A few of the women even came forth-impossible to now call _ladies_ -who had dropped their skirts to reveal trousers beneath and hip padding that was not padding at all so much as belts loaded with dangerous grenades. "Not while one of us yet draws breath."

"It would perhaps be most prudent _not_ to breathe at his juncture," Cyrano replied as he noted the distinct sound of a grenade tumbling across the flagstone.

The grenade ejected a thick and odorous gas that piled plume upon plume at a rapid rate that was meant to choke and blind within seconds. Cyrano held his breath. Bartolomeo did likewise, and the two of them quickly dove in a direction that took them away from the high table and out of reach of most of the Crows. A rolling tumble brought the bard back to his feet and at the ready when the enemy discovered him missing, a pair female assassins leaping out of the smoke with keen daggers pointed and ready to plunge.

Bartolomeo dodged and brought his weapons about while the women were focused on doing away with Cyrano directly. The bard, on the other hand, kept himself low and his weapons high, blocking the deadly steel and engaging his foes head-on. Crows often resorted to throwing women into the fray when it was thought a target would go out of his way to avoid killing them. Cyrano had no such sympathies just then. As soon as they had the advantage, he and Bartolomeo lunged as one, blades finding the spaces under arms or between leather bodice plates and biting into the vitals beneath.

The shrieks must have been Emilio's cue. He came charging at them out of the smoke, turning on his toe to stand with them, swords at the ready, as the Crows he hadn't cut down in the confusion of the grenade's aftermath regrouped as the air cleared. Three against fifteen were not horrible odds. The Crows were not about to give them time to work out any viable strategy. They split apart and charged, coming at Cyrano and his companions from as many different directions as they could.

The dance began anew. Blades clashed and the three Wolves found themselves all at the heart of a fight worthy of one of the Calabrese drills. Blows hailed down from above or sliced in from the side. High guard, low guard, thrust, parry, evade, movement could not cease lest one wanted to be struck dead by an unexpected stroke. Cyrano kicked out at the attackers that faced him, knocking one back to give him that much more breathing room. It was futile. The gap closed quickly and that removed opponent only came rushing in to another quarter, going after Emilio instead.

Bartolomeo managed to ensnare several blades in an overlapping tangle of steel and his own short cloak. With a mighty sweep of both his arms, he tucked his chin down, hefted his shoulders up, flung off his cloak and let it take not only his weapons but those of the three men he had faced down. Before they could recover, he charged in low, tackling one about the waist and ramming him into the other two. He didn't miss a beat as he continued on to where the weapons had scattered and gathered up two longswords. Crows fell to both of them on his way back to the others, throats slit, hearts pierced, and still so many left standing.

There was a great shout as someone came bounding over a table. Cyrano did not risk a look but took comfort only in that it was someone apparently more than willing to fight on his side. There was a heavy clang and a grunt as a heavy weapon connected with the ribcage of some hapless Crow.

"Couldn't let you have all the fun!" came the deep and sardonic voice of the dwarf the Warden-Commander had brought back with her. As if to further cement his point, he let loose a mighty belch and cleaved his way through still more Crows. With his help-particularly due to the fact that there was no Crow weapon that would stand up to a battle axe of purest silverite-it was no trouble mopping up what remained.

"I told you not to interfere," di Malogna intoned to Alistair, sounding almost bored as he removed whatever trappings that would merely get in the way of his sword arm. He tossed these upon the high table before stepping down into the courtyard proper, avoiding the bodies of fallen Crows and the slowly growing pools of blood.

"Now, just you shut that hole in your face," Oghren drawled. "Who went and made you the lawmaker here, anyway?"

"I am the Prince of Rialto," di Malogna replied as if it should have been common knowledge. And, given the elaborate introductions he'd received just earlier that day, it very well should have been...if Oghren had been even remotely interested in that sort of thing. Regardless, Cyrano let the dwarf say whatever he wished. There was no damage that could be done at this point.

"You're the prince of my arse." Or...perhaps there could be. "Rialto ain't no Fereldan city, and you're no Fereldan. You can just get your princely hide back on that no good ship o' yours and sail back to where you came from."

Rudolfo smiled, a cold and humorless thing that would have chilled a man with any sense. Since it was a safe assumption that Oghren had no sense, he remained largely unaffected. Cyrano noticed that Emilio and Bartolomeo tensed and moved into tighter formation, however, determined to protect their master to the very end.

" _I_ am the Prince of Rialto," Rudolfo repeated as he leveled his sword at Cyrano. "And I will only leave once my business is completed. It is none of yours, dwarf. I suggest you leave, now, before I have you removed."

Oghren scoffed. "Try it, nug humper."

Cyrano laid a hand on the dwarf's armored shoulder. He wore the black iron of the Legion of the Dead and certainly approached all things like he had a death-wish, if his current behavior were anything to go by. It was not necessary here.

"Peace, friend," the bard said, just loud enough for those about them to hear. "The gentleman's business is with me-and me alone. Is that not right?" He stepped forward to Emilio's protest, but he held up a hand to silence the young Wolf. "This is not about some insult given you by Cyrano Rideri...or some slight that came to the Duchessa." He continued to move toward di Malogna, his dark eyes not leaving those of the usurper as they both attempted to stare the other down. He reached up and untied the ribbon that held the mask to his face. The black velvet facade fell away with the silence of winter snow. "This is because Sebastian Calabrese is still alive."

" _I am the Prince of Rialto_!"

"You keep saying that like it's supposed to mean something. I have found that the more you repeat a word or phrase, the more it rings of total nonsense." Cyrano hefted the longsword in his right hand, taking a moment to eye up its length to ensure it remained unbent. It was not as balanced as either blade he had acquired from the Warden-Commander's stash, but it had served well thus far. "You came here for Sebastian Calabrese." His head remained turned slightly to the side, but his eyes returned to meet those of Rudolfo. "Sebastian Calabrese whose Sovereign you couldn't hope to steal on your own. So, you sought help. ...Or did you? Perhaps, things just happened to work out in your favor and Ines merely found you useful."

"I am-"

"Really rather _pathetic_ at pretending to be the Prince of Rialto. Kindly stop reminding us." It was Cyrano's turn to sound bored. "And how is that working out for Esmeralda, exactly? Last I heard, only two of the admirals could be bothered to side with you and that only out of convenience. Your grip on the Armada is tenuous at best. Without them-what good are you?"

"You are the only thing standing between us and victory," Rudolfo hissed between clenched teeth. "I would have you die slowly, but rumors of your continued existence undermine _everything_."

"I'm touched." Cyrano's smile was positively beatific. He fell into a duelist's stance, one sword extended forward with the second poised over his head yet parallel to the first. "Make good on your promise, if you can. I certainly wouldn't want to be the one to tell Esmeralda how you failed."

Rudolfo was too enraged to wait. His sword already out, he drew his dirk and charged. Steel connected with steel in fast, feverish strokes. They danced about each other in silent concentration. Feet were careful to avoid the fallen, the slick blood, the spilled wine. Most of the revelers had retreated to the far walls, but few had actually tried to flee the courtyard. Something needed to be said for Fereldan resilience. In the wake of such an atrocity as the Blight, a band of Crows was a mere nuisance, a curiosity, a splinter in one's thumb that was stubborn but that would fall out in time. Besides, the young king had not moved from his seat, watching everything that had happened with a studied interest. if he were unconcerned, why should anyone else be?

There was a clanking just beyond the outer gallery, though Cyrano could not see what it was for all he was trying to keep Rudolfo from hacking any of his limbs off. There were barked orders from a gruff and familiar voice, and palace guards came filing into the space to set up a barrier between Rudolfo, Cyrano, and everyone else. A shout went up from somewhere in the crowd, "Wolves feast upon Crows!" Behind Ratham's guards, faces gone pale in confusion and fear began to drop out of sight as one faction of assassins eliminated another.

In the middle of the courtyard, crossed swords ensnared each other at the hilt, and Rudolfo, just slightly the taller man, forced their hands upwards to get his face directly before Cyrano's.

"You rely on others to level the playing field, do you?"

Cyrano grimaced. "This coming from the one who lost twenty Crows to three men and a dwarf."

With a twist at his shoulders, he wrenched his weapons free and came at Rudolfo anew. There was urgency here, impatience on the part of both of them. This was a duel long overdue, and it ate away at each man's resolve with growing ferocity. Wrath fueled their battle as much as determination. When speed began to fail them and arms grew weary, they circled each other like the captive lions of the Imperium. Neither of them had scored a hit on the other, and that was perhaps the most frustrating part of it all.

Cyrano's arms stung with tiny cuts from his earlier dealings with the other Crows. There was nothing that bled freely, but the salt of his sweat (and he prayed fervently that it was only that) burned now that his body had the opportunity to realize it. His sleeves were slashed, his doublet missing pearls and sprouting white padding from amidst the red velvet. But his clothing looked in far worse condition than _he_ actually was. That was all that mattered.

Not for nothing, Rudolfo was an accomplished swordsman. One did not buy one's place as a Talon of the Crows. Ability must also be proven. This did not also mean that a particular level of genius needed to be involved. Rudolfo's strength was in a duel. Large-scale tactical strategy-as evidenced by his inability to control the Felicissima Armada or effectively send a band of Crows after one man-was not remotely his forte. But this was not a sea battle upon the great Bay of Rialto. This _was_ a duel, one man against one man, and Cyrano was doing his best to swallow back the fear that he'd already been made to expend too much.

That was, surely, all part of the plan. His own reputation, as bard or Prince, was not one to be dismissed as trivial, either. He was certainly proud of it, but the truth was most evident in the reactions of his enemies. Rudolfo di Malogna did not trust his own skill to be enough and, thus, sent in a full contingent of Crows-as many as had been sent for the Warden-Commander, at least-to make their attempt, to wear him down if they could not kill him. Cyrano almost smiled at that. To believe so many Crows were necessary was a compliment.

The reprieve was short-lived. Rudolfo paused only long enough to catch his own breath and reassess the situation. Whatever he deduced brought him in fast and hard, his blades a flurry of motion that involved as many feints as actual strikes. Cyrano did what he could to keep up, but the break in the action had done nothing to benefit him at all. It was easier to breathe, but his arms felt like a horrible weight dragged at them, a stiffness setting in that he gritted his teeth against. _The blaggard_ , he cursed to himself, resorting to (with all possible affection) one of Ser Ratham's favorite slurs.

A most sinister smile curled Rudolfo's lips through the bristle of mustaches and short beard. He had intended this. It came through in the glint in his eyes. Cyrano realized right then that Rudolfo would _continue_ to do this if the bard let him, fighting to nearly the brink of exhaustion, pausing, and giving his opponent just enough time to _not_ recover. All the while, Rudolfo must have been keeping himself tense, keeping his muscles working. Cyrano's eyes narrowed as he tried to force his body to push past the effects of his own exertions. He would not fall victim to that tactic again.

If he even got the chance to get that far.

Rudolfo's tactics changed ever so slightly as he continued to keep Cyrano on his toes. Sword strokes were not so exact and concentrated as they had been, but broad and sweeping, coming in from the sides and down below as much as they did from directly forward and above. He wasn't fencing anymore, not as an Antivan or Orlesian knew. As Cyrano watched, frantically working to maintain his defenses, he identified one particular feint as a common Rivaini ploy. That realization made all the rest come clear.

 _Mierda_. It was a struggle to readjust. The most effective counter to the Rivaini style of swordplay was the use of the more straightforward Nevarran brutality against the flourishes and elaborate showmanship. That's really all it was, but the Rivaini duelists had learned long ago that hypnotizing an opponent with implied skill was sometimes just as effective as confounding him with actual skill. Cyrano had never properly studied Nevarran tactics. They had been of no interest to him in his younger days, but he knew he could return as good as he was given. He had counted at least one Rivaini pirate lord among his confidantes while still the Prince of Rialto, and that had never mattered more than it did, now.

What strength Cyrano had left, he threw it into the fighting. He dared to take the offensive the moment he saw an opening, his whole body becoming a weapon as he recalled sparring sessions with Captain Ferdinand Asanir. A goodly portion of his style had been adapted for use upon the ever-moving platform of a sailing ship, but on hard, steady ground, it made balance all that more easy to maintain. Rudolfo found himself pushed backward, his swords constantly crossing back and forth to protect his face and throat. But Ferdinand had also designed his moves to be necessary only for a short period of time. If a man could not best his opponent in a few seconds, he was doomed to be worn out by his own bravado. And Cyrano was already weary.

That was the very core of it. A duel to the death should last only as long as it took to drive the point of a blade through another's heart. Rudolfo was intentionally drawing this out, as if he wanted to savor pushing his rival to that point of shame only a novice should feel. To be bested by obvious skill was quick and painless. To be taken slowly, to be given _hope_ , to be tried until every single muscle screamed in agony was the torture of knowing you were going to die no matter how brilliant your efforts. But no matter how he tried, Cyrano's attempts at a killing blow were thwarted as if Rudolfo were uncannily able to anticipate his every strategy.

The tip of Rudolfo's off-weapon connected with his shoulder, piercing the flesh with a sharp pain that quickly began to go numb with a freezing burn. With his blood pumping as hard as it was, it took barely a second for the sensation to travel down Cyrano's arm, leaving the entire limb useless. The bard spun away from his opponent. He cast the sword in his affected right hand aside and turned his body to make himself a much narrower target. It would do him little good. He could feel it as Rudolfo grinned darkly, tossing his off-hand weapon in his confidence. The deathroot would eventually travel beyond that single arm, coursing through Cyrano's body as it was carried on that same blood that worked to keep him alive. The numbness traveled with it: across his chest, down his back, into his legs, and gripping at his heart.

Cyrano stumbled, staring wide-eyed at the man who had not had to even twitch his wrist to deflect a blow since he had struck with the poison. His feet betrayed him and then his knees before finally, with the undeniable weight of unforgivable shame, Cyrano collapsed to the floor and was unable to move. His fingers went lax, his remaining weapon falling from his grip with a pitiful _clink_ rather than a ringing clang. Rudolfo loomed over him, and the bard was forced to witness the satisfied smirk, the wicked glint, to hear the whispered Antivan curse denying him his honor in death.

The tip of a sword was aimed at the soft flesh where his jaw met his neck. Cyrano's mouth was too dry to even try to swallow, a mercy as this blade was likely poisoned, too. Not that it mattered. The death blow would come, and that would be the end of it. He closed his eyes as he caved to the weariness that had so overtaken him. Would that his memories had never been returned, that he had never drunk of the Grey Warden cup, that he had never tried to flee the Crows. If he had only remained where Ines could safely keep him her thrall-

One of Solona's rare smiles flamed across the inside of his eyelids. It was not accompanied by the purple flame he would have expected of more recent weeks but rather by the subtle green light of her healing magic. He could feel the weariness begin to slough away as if it were being rinsed off by a gentle rain, but that sharp point at his throat still told him that it was too little and too late.

"There is only one Prince of Rialto," he could hear Rudolfo say with a particular smugness, "and _I_ am he. Your death will not even be noted in the _annales_."

" _NO_!"

The voice was unexpected, feminine, and almost unrecognizable in its urgency. There was a grunt from Rudolfo as something sizzled through the air and connected with him, knocking him off his feet. His sword fell somewhere beyond while the rustling thud of his body traveled in an opposite direction. Cyrano tried to open his eyes to see, but he was already being pulled elsewhere, down into partial consciousness where a part of him was lost in a green-tinged dream of intangible pleasantness while the rest of him was still somehow keenly aware of what was going on in the courtyard.

The padding of feet could be heard rushing in his direction, and the sweet smell of rosewater and sandalwood enveloped him as hands lovingly grasped his head to let it come to rest in a soft pillow of silk and lace.

"Sebastian! Sebastian, _mi amor_...Sebastian, no, no, no…."

Tears splashed down upon his face as a woman wept over him. Her voice was familiar, possessed of that lyrical quality of Antiva. Ines.

There was a grunt from where Rudolfo had fallen, a cough, and then:

"Traitorous _puta_. I will kill you both!"

"You promised!" Ines returned, rage in her tone. "You promised that I could-"

Rudolfo had lurched back to his feet and shuffled closer. "You could not hold onto him when he was an ignorant jester. You cannot possibly control him enough, now, to win us the war."

Cyrano was glad his hearing was somewhat dampened when Ines let out the shriek that she did. His head fell back to the hard floor as her gown vanished from beneath him. The smell of ozone was thick as magic tore through the air, the Antivan usurper unfortunate enough to be caught in it. How long it lasted was impossible to ascertain, but in that time, Cyrano felt gentle hands come to rest upon his chest and a warmth emanate out from them. His mind regained its sharpness, and he was at last able to open his eyes. Solona knelt over him. Her expression was full of worry even as her mouth managed a smile when she noticed his gaze fix upon hers.

A few Crows had survived the Wolf onslaught and came to their master's aid against Ines and her magic. That hardly fazed her. In a rush, Solona helped Cyrano get out of the way quickly as a shockwave rippled through the floor. Assassins that had already been greeted by the open arms of death were raised up, the blood that had pooled about them swirling up and around Ines as it tethered them to her will.

Ines was swift and deliberate. Her undead were as effective in inspiring fear as they were at resisting pain, and the living Crows were nothing in the face of such an enemy. Rudolfo's swords had served him well against the mundane talents of Cyrano, but they could do nothing to slice through the overwhelming power of the Fade that came at him, now. His cries of agony could have curdled blood as he was lifted up and his entire body began to glow as if a fire had ignited somewhere inside of him. The screaming stopped when the flames erupted forth, only to be echoed by Alistair's guests as they finally registered that there were more dangerous things among them than assassins.

 _Blood mage. Maleficar_. The alarm went up, and Ser Ratham shouted for the Templars that had been kept in reserve. Ines turned slowly, her expression one of a chilling sobriety as her eyes searched for Cyrano. He was not where she had left him, and that brought a frantic furrow to her brow. Black eyes met silver when she caught sight of Solona and burned with wrath when she saw Cyrano held in the younger mage's arms. At some point, Solona had taken the mask from her face-likely to make it easier to tend to the wounded bard-and that was the worst thing she could have done if she wanted to avoid attracting too much attention.

"Whore!" Ines cried out as she raised her hands to begin a casting. The blood swirled anew and actually seemed to be _absorbed_ into her somehow. Her eyes closed for a moment, but when they opened again, they glowed with unnatural violet flame. "You will unhand him!"

Solona was frozen in place by the shock of it. All mages knew of blood magic. All _people_ were warned against it. However, very few had ever actually seen it, even those among the ranks of the Grey Wardens.

"Return him to me at once!" Ines growled. Her voice had taken on a strange quality. It sounded like her own mingled with another, something deeper and far more sinister.

Cyrano barely heard what Solona said next. "Abomination…."

Her arms fell away from him, her eyes fixed upon the horror she now realized had made its presence fully known. With a deceptive level of calm that the bard knew she could _not_ possibly be feeling, Solona moved toward that thing that had been Ines. The Duchessa's body seemed to float inches above the ground, the lace of her gown taking on a strangely ethereal quality even as her countenance had been twisted by such a corruption that made her terrible to behold.

Solona said nothing as she stood at the edge of the carnage. Despite all Ines had taken to fuel her power, blood coated everything. The flagstone glistened an obscene red as bodies lay broken in the most inconceivable of ways. Rudolfo's blackened form lay in a pile of smouldering ash and bone at the maleficar's feet, a dangerous testament to how one so mighty could fall.

 _She only knows three spells,_ Cyrano gulped, watching helplessly as Ratham himself came to both hold him back and give what comfort he could. There were Templars. There was Solona and Aleix. There was even Alistair who had since taken up his own sword in anticipation of the battle that could ensue.

And there was Ines with all the dead at her disposal.

"You cannot have what was never yours." The clarity of Solona's voice was a shock when it came. She knelt and lifted a quarterstaff from where a Crow had dropped it in his demise. It had no magical qualities of its own, but that likely wasn't the intent. If anything, it was a focus, a thing to channel what little the Orlesian Warden knew. Aleix had prepared her as well as he could in the time that was given, but he had not abandoned her to this. Cyrano caught sight of him at the far side of the courtyard, his own mage's staff at the ready, and there was a subtle nod on his part.

"I will take what I will, mortal," came the reply, "and the desire in this one is strong. You are _nothing_."

Ines' arms moved in preparation for a casting, but Solona was faster. Hers was the power of lightning and it was with such speed that she could unleash it. Blinding light consumed the space followed by a crackling boom. There was the stink of ozone and a roar of pain, but the demon neither fell nor relinquished the body of Ines. Aleix answered with skill of his own, using even some of the blood on the floor as ancient elvhen magic was woven by his skilled fingers.

The duel that ensued was of a much different sort than what had previously occurred. Eyes did not watch with mild interest so much as intense, paralyzing fear as the untempered power of the Fade lashed back and forth between three figures that could bend the very fabric of the world.

The demon took the blows as they came, using the opportunity to gauge her opponents all while gnashing her sharp teeth at them. Mortals were nothing against her, and she proved that when, after gathering what power she could, she curled into herself and then just as quickly uncoiled. A shock even greater than the one earlier shook the very air itself, and everyone in the space found themselves knocked back. There was no backlash. There was no second attack. There was only a low sound that grew into into a gleeful cackle as the form that had once been Ines took in the scene about her.

Cyrano shook his head to try to clear his vision of stars. He had been flung into one of the dining tables and seemed to be no worse the wear other than a sharp pain where a candlestick pressed into the small of his back. He sat up with care, looking about him to see what damage had been done. The demon hung in the middle of the room, wearing Ines' face and laughing like she knew she had won. And what was to tell her otherwise? All the guards were upon the ground, the Templars, the Wolves. None had been left standing that could have rallied against her, and whether they were dead or not did not matter.

Solona lay face-down upon the floor. She had not been thrown as far as some, the staff splintered at the bottom where she had used it to ground against the spell, but her eyes were open and staring...perhaps unseeing.

"No…" Cyrano choked on unbidden tears as he tried to crawl toward her. His body ached in ways he couldn't describe. It was more than weariness. It was as if he had been pummeled with a war hammer with a complete and total lack of mercy. Solona did not respond when he reached her, when he laid a hand alongside her face, when he pressed his lips to her brow.

"Isn't it wonderful, my love?" Ines crooned, her voice more her own yet no less alien to his ears. "She can no longer come between us." Her feet alighted upon the floor, and she opened her arms to him in loving welcome.

"Oh, Ines...is your foolish thirst for vengeance so insatiable?" Cyrano carefully let his free hand come to the floor near his side. A Crow dagger lay there, bloody, broken, but it still maintained a useable point.

The abomination before him didn't respond beyond another laugh that made tears sting his eyes even more. Bianca...Solona...and now even Ines herself had been taken away by a thoughtless desire that would lead to no one's eternal bliss. Cyrano's hand clenched into a fist around the sticky grip of the dagger's hilt, and his body stiffened as he poised to sprint forward.

"You've taken all I love from me," he whispered, though he knew the demon could not hear over her own mirth. "You will not have anything more."

Just as he was about to spring, he felt a small pressure about his ankle. He glanced down to see Solona looking up at him out of the corner of her eye. Her gaze was not steady. He could tell that it was everything she could do to manage even that much as her hand weakly held him back. Her other arm slowly inched out its jerking way across the flagstone, her sleeve snagging upon the imperfections of the shale until her open palm pressed completely into a puddle of blood.

"No, _amora_ ," Cyrano gasped in horror when he realized. "No, my life is not worth-"

And the world exploded in white-hot aether.


	20. Epilogue: A Crown for a Sovereign

It's an odd sort of blessing when dreams don't plague during unconsciousness. Cyrano could have dreamed any number of things in the days he lay in bed in his chambers ranging from the pleasant to the most hellish, but there was nothing but a sweet, sweet blackness that was the most calming in its own way. Also unlike his experience after tasting the concoction that makes one a Grey Warden, he did not have a small army of women fussing over him. When he opened his eyes, he found himself alone, warm, and-at least initially-untroubled.

It was when his memory kicked in that he realized that things were certainly _not_ as they should have been. He sat up with a start, his elbows supporting him as his head whipped about. Both of the high-backed chairs were positioned near the fire with not a soul seated there. No one sat at his bedside to keep watch. There was not even a sign that Ellia had been there in her usual daily rounds.

The _commedia_. The masque. The terror that came after.

His breath catching in his chest, Cyrano leaped from his bed in a total panic. He was in nothing but a loose pair of trousers, but that didn't stop him from wrenching open the door to his chamber and dashing out into the hallway. No guard stood there, and that only urged him to run _faster_. He missed his turn a couple of times but came at last to the stairwell that would take him to Solona's chamber. He didn't knock. He didn't wait. He shoved his way inside only to find an empty, untouched bed and a cold fireplace.

"Solona!" he called out, tearing the coverlets away and flinging open the doors to the wardrobe. Clothing hung there, but it was not hers. They were not the robes of a mage or the Orlesian finery from the vault. His voice cracked as he called out for her again.

As he turned to run into the hallway again, he bumped headlong into an elvhen servant who was going about her rounds. Some element of sense returned to him enough to ask her where Solona was, where she had gone, whether anything had happened to her. The girl doesn't bother to tell him. She _shows_ him. Her tiny hand grabs his and leads him further down corridors and past the invariable portraits of King Maric and statues of Andraste. They came at last to a large hall on one of the lower floors. Cots filled the space, many occupied by the wounded of the masque that had ended so disastrously. The elf took Cyrano directly to a group of Circle mages busily making poultices at a work table, sleeves rolled back and hands colored from the ingredients.

One of the mages, a blonde elf woman in the rose-colored robes of an enchanter, looked up at his approach. Her smile was warm, and her blue eyes sparkled as she recognized him.

"Signore Calabrese, we were wondering when you would awaken."

"Rideri," the bard corrected with a reflex that almost startled himself. "Or...whatever. Where is Solona? What happened to her?"

The mage's smile broadened as she nodded. "She is fine. She's been helping us tend the wounded when she hasn't otherwise been fussing over you." She used her chin to motion in a direction off behind him and to the right. "Over there."

Cyrano spun and looked about him, eyes falling first on this servant and that Chanter before they finally alighted on that familiar head of dark hair and wineglass form once more garbed in Circle robes. She sat at the bedside of another young woman, holding her hand as an equally well Aleix performed healing magics of his own. The bard would not wait-could not wait-for them to finish. He shouldered his way across the space, his hair disheveled and eyes wild, his bare chest heaving and his bare feet moving quickly across the cold stone of the floor.

He fell to his knees beside Solona, startling her as her face was grabbed up in his hands and his lips pressed to hers. He tasted the salt of his own tears as he kissed her, and he didn't have the will to hide the intensity of his emotion. He was alive. _She_ was alive. After a length of such darkness, he thanked the Maker there could still be a gift of purest light.

"You should still be in your bed," Solona protested softly when Cyrano finally gave her the space to breathe. "Rudolfo's poison-"

"Is of little consequence. _Amora_ , what happened?"

Aleix let out a quiet chuckle before Solona had a chance to figure out exactly which part of everything the bard was referring to. "Your lady used Ines' own power against her. Or, at least, the source of that power."

"Aleix, you did _not_ teach her-" Cyrano burst to his feet and rounded on the other man in the space of a heartbeat. He dropped his voice. "You did not teach her blood magic."

The old man shook his head with a wan smile. "No. And neither has she turned to it. However, I _did_ teach her a very old fact about the world that blood, such as it is, conducts the power of lightning very, very well."

"It amplified naturally," Solona put in, seeing to the final needs of their current charge before she rose and smoothed out the folds of her robes. "And it stopped you from doing something foolish."

Cyrano looked at her. The expression she was giving him, now, had no pride, no smugness, nothing that she was rubbing it in his face that she had done him a favor in a way he could never possibly repay. She was blunt. She was honest. And the shimmer in those eyes told him that she would do it a thousand times over if she had to.

"Then...what happens, now?" he asked, looking to each of the mages in turn before taking in the entirety of the hall and all the lives that he had endangered.

"We'll take care of things here," Aleix assured him with a firm and gentle hand squeezing down on Cyrano's shoulder. "You get back to your bed. Drink water. Rest. You've done a great service for all Antiva and Ferelden both...but it is yet far from over."

* * *

It was another few days before Cyrano felt anything close to normal. That first awakening had him carried on the wings of adrenaline that quickly gave out as a Chantry Sister helped him back to his room. His body no longer ached, but there was a weakness he had never before experienced, as if every part of his body had conspired against him. His legs could not support him. His arms could not balance him. He collapsed back into his bed when he reached it and dreamed once more of nothing.

A full two weeks after the masque, he stood at the mirror in his room as he adjusted a suit of Antivan finery that the Warden-Commander had commissioned just for him. It was based on the outfit in the portrait Ratham had found but significantly updated to match the style of the day. Red and black velvet was trimmed with heavy gold embroidery and a fine white lace that was narrow enough to be subtle but intricate enough to still draw the eye. The trousers were a plain black suede with knee-high boots to match, and slashes in the sleeves of the doublet exposed the white of the shirt beneath. The short cape he draped over one shoulder was black on the outside and trimmed with cloth-of-gold beneath, and the sword he had been left with to belt at his waist was the Grey Warden longsword he had claimed from the Commander's personal armory.

He ran his fingers over the griffon of the pommel, inhaling deeply as he considered it in relation to his own family crest. The Calabreses had claimed a rampant swan as their testament to their beginnings as common minstrels like Rowan and the others. That skill coupled with guile had been honed into a keen weapon that enabled them to become a dynasty of powerful Princes. None had ever been Wardens. Two griffons stood back-to-back in silver relief upon the pommel of his sword. Perhaps, one day, there would be such a blazon as a griffon and a swan, both rampant, both on a field of red and gold. The house of Calabrese: Princes, Wardens, and protectors.

"Are you ready?"

Cyrano started at the voice. He turned to see Solona standing nearby, her hands folded before the skirt of her gown of blue brocade. Her hair was caught up in a snood woven with freshwater pearls and glittering sapphire. She looked every inch the Orlesian lady her mother had tried to raise her to be and that her step-brother had secretly hoped, passing her his title as he did when he joined the Wardens.

"Not quite," he replied as he belted the sword to his waist. "There is yet one thing more."

He went to the chest at the end of his bed and opened it, drawing forth a smaller box of a gleaming, darkly stained wood. This he also opened by twisting a tiny latch at the front to reveal an interior stuffed full of white linen and lace.

"Handkerchiefs?" Solona inquired, cocking her head to the side in curiosity.

"Useful in themselves, true, but no." He picked through the balled-up bits of fabric before he found the one he had been looking for. "Emilio brought me some of the things from _La Veridad_ after it was confiscated. Ines had apparently kept some things of mine as part of her...her spell upon me. Here." He got to his feet once more and turned to Solona, holding up the cloth and carefully unwrapping it from around what was inside. "This one was not actually mine. It was my mother's."

A ring lay upon his open palm. It was cast of pure gold and chased with silverite in the pattern of the family crest. A signet ring in all its fine detail yet sized for a woman's hand.

"I want you to have it."

Solona looked from the ring, to his face, and back again with a raised eyebrow and a strange twist to her mouth.

"To wear the name 'Calabrese' is a lot of weight to carry."

"Well, 'Rideri' is too plebeian," he countered with a teasing smile. "Although, I will grant that it flows a bit more freely from the tongue." He reached down and took her hand, fitting the ring to her finger as she looked on with her lip caught between her teeth and a hot blush rising on her cheeks. "But, no matter the weight, I know at least one other with the strength to carry it. Will she?"

Solona stood frozen for a moment. She stared at the ring on her finger, at the swan with its wings spread open wide in flight as it was surrounded by delicate scrollwork. When she looked up at Cyrano again, her mouth worked as if her mind still tried to form a coherent response. Lacking his particular gift at talking his way out of any awkward situation, she chose the path most open to her that would still get her meaning across.

She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him.

Surprised but by no means displeased, Cyrano smiled inwardly to himself as he cradled her head in his hands. There were no sudden shocks of lightning, no arguments of pride, no assassins lurking in the shadows. There was nothing but two people and the breath between them.

And that was all he could possibly want.

It was some minutes before either of them remembered what it was they were actually supposed to be about. The city had recovered enough for them to realize that they had cause to be grateful. Those who had fallen during the fight with the demon had been given all due honors as soon as it had been possible. But Fereldans are resilient folk. They had come through Blight and civil war. Crows were nothing in comparison, and when they learned the truth about their newest benefactor, the Prince of Rialto, the entire Landsmeet had pushed for a move to properly honor him. It was thick with politics. Alistair, Cyrano, Teagan, and Aleix had discussed this development at some length in the days leading up to this, but none of them could find any ultimate harm in claiming Rialto as an official ally of Ferelden. Cyrano would be the very last to deny it.

The Landsmeet Chamber was full to bursting when they arrived. King Alistair had already been proceeding with something, but he quickly moved from whatever it was to announcing the arrival of Sebastian Calabrese, the true Prince of Rialto and Friend of the King.

The response was unexpected. A hero's welcome was due those that stopped wars and killed Archdemons. The deafening noise that came, the whooping and huzzahs, the clapping and stomping of feet, that was not something Cyrano would have placed in any tale about a rogue come to a nation under false pretense, who brought a different sort of conflict to its doorstep, and barely managed to end it by the skin of his teeth. But these Fereldans gave it all the same.

"It's no different than your _commedia_ ," Kallian would tell him later when they finally sat down to discuss the books in her library. "Your Il Capitano is just as often a scoundrel as he is an honorable man. Yet, he is always the same character, that familiar archetype. People will always see heroes where they want to and celebrate them when it's convenient. Before me, city elves were never heroes. After me? Who knows."

All of the standing ovations in the world could not have prepared him for what greeted him that day. With Solona's arm linked through his, they walked down that rich blue carpet to stand before the throne. A free man instead of a prisoner, a Prince instead of an assassin, he bowed before the king with all the respect due a peer. In return, Alistair took something from a cushion the Warden-Commander held and hung this about Cyrano's neck.

In surprise, he looked down as he straightened. To receive thanks and accolades he had somewhat expected. But the heavy gold medallion hung from a thick length of satin was not something even his keen mind had anticipated and to look at it startled him further still. The medallion filled his palm as he lifted it to look. Upon one face was stamped the seal of Rialto, not his family crest but the three-masted galleon at full sail surrounded by the motto, " _Su Mare e Su Terra_ ," the true strength of Rialto. On the reverse were the rampant griffons of the Grey Wardens. Around it was etched, " _In War, Victory. In Peace, Vigilance. In Death, Sacrifice._ " Such had been his oath, and so he would maintain it no matter where fate might take him. It was an Antivan Sovereign, forged anew and a symbol of everything that he needed to be.

"You'll need that where you're going, I think," Alistair said lowly enough that the words were kept between them.

Cyrano couldn't keep the grin from his face. It was a difficult thing to describe, and he had only just then realized it, but it was the first time he'd felt like himself- _wholly_ himself-in well over a decade. He was at a loss for words. _He_ , Cyrano Rideri or Sebastian Calabrese or whatever he felt like calling himself, bard of all bards...could not think of a single verbal thing with which to reply.

"I…" he managed at last, his attention moving between Solona and the king and the Warden-Commander, "I am in your debt, sire."

"What debt? Last I checked, it was _you_ who orchestrated a way to save _us_ from a nasty bunch of mercenaries, a swarm of assassins, and a blood mage."

"None of which would have been here had it not been for me."

"Perhaps, but you hardly could have known. What matters is what happened _after_ , and in that I must say that you did us all the greatest of favors. You did what you could to keep us from getting embroiled in another war, and-" Alistair took a step closer and made his voice be that much lower "-I trust you'll keep doing so once word of all this gets back to Antiva."

And there it was. Cyrano couldn't help but laugh. No debt was owed, but surely a favor was gained. He could live with that.

Such revels there were as had been long overdue. All of Denerim rejoiced for every reason they could think of. They celebrated the end of the Blight. They toasted the end of the civil war. They danced and sang amidst the new construction that stood where an Archdemon's fire had burned. And they gave thanks to a man, as much a stranger to himself as to any other, who had given them reason to hope that there would always be those to protect against the spiders of the world stage.

No matter what form they took.


End file.
